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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.
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.
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.
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.
Summary: Steve needs a favor and the last person he should trust is the only person who can help.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: mob boss reader, flirting.
W/C: 984
Word of the day (June 8, 2026) - Mafia
Notes: Set between Civil War and Infinity War.
Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch
Master Lists: Word Of The Day- June 2026 // Main
Reports filter in every few seconds now. The Falcon and his flying contraption are in the adjacent building, no doubt scanning images through the walls. The Winter Soldier is on the roof of the opposite building, with a clear line of sight despite the rain painting streaks down the floor-to-ceiling windows.
You don’t blame them. They’re being smart. Respectful, even, because they take the threat you pose seriously.
Though not officially closed, patrons and most of the restaurant's staff were made to leave a half hour ago.
Lights cast a warm glow against the dark wood surroundings, and music still plays softly through hidden speakers. A busser remains, moving between tables, clearing up after a busy dinner service. The chef waits in the kitchen for your order.
You're armed, as are the men in your employ located throughout the space. You doubt the need for violence will arise, but it pays to be cautious.
The swish of the door opening announces his arrival, and he patiently allows himself to be patted down before being escorted to your table.
You don’t bother to stand when your guest arrives at your table. Money talks, but wealth whispers, and power, real power, doesn’t grovel for attention.
Steve Rogers. The golden boy. Except these days, the shine has diminished. Exhaustion caresses his demeanor like a second skin—drooped shoulders, dulled blue irises, and the beard that has replaced the clean-cut image plastered across newspapers suggests sleep has become a luxury rather than a necessity. You're surprised he showed up.
Fingers tracing the stem of your wine glass, softly you accuse, “You kept me waiting.”
“Traffic.”
Interesting. The corner of your lips curls upward, but you keep the smile in check. Without hesitation or waiting for permission, he pulls out the chair opposite yours and sits.
Your father would have hated him immediately. You find yourself admiring his confidence.
“You’re staring,” you say.
“I’m observing.”
“That’s a polite way to put it.”
His lip twitches, but as you did, he restrains the gesture. “So is ‘business woman.’”
You softly laugh, “There it is.”
“What?”
“The judgment of my character …my reputation.”
Steve leans back in his chair, seemingly relaxed, as if he's meeting an old friend, but the tension he carries is palpable. “You're the head of the biggest Mafia organization in modern history. I’d assume you’d want a reputation.”
“My father built the empire.” You pause and shrug. “I run it. Reputation follows.”
Steve’s expression shifts, not fear or surprise, more like acceptance. “I heard rumors.”
Now you smile. “So you came to see for yourself.”
Rich amber liquid lightly swirls as you push a glass toward him. He doesn’t immediately reach for it.
“Expecting poison?”
“No.” Eyes briefly flicking between you and the glass, he smoothly replies. “You wouldn't waste good whiskey.”
“True.” You take a sip of your own drink to hide your growing admiration. “So, Mr. Rogers-"
"Steve."
The slight arch of your brow is the only indication of your surprise. "Steve. Why are you here?”
If you were anyone else, his steady gaze would be disconcerting. Instead, you hold that contact as you lean back in your chair.
“Needed to see for myself if the stories were true.”
“What stories?”
He takes his time to respond, leaning forward to rest his arms on the table. The action makes the room feel smaller, more intimate.
“About your intelligence.”
"Exaggerated, I'm sure,” you deadpan, knowing full well they are not.
“Your ruthlessness.”
“Depends on the circumstance.”
“Your beauty.”
The word lands softly, effortlessly, as if he isn't currently sitting in the lion's den while complimenting the lioness.
Rain patters against the window, refracting light from the city below into a glittery haze. The gentle sound fills the momentary weighted silence.
Crossing your arms, you lean forward to rest them on the table. “You flirt with all the crime bosses?”
Steve flashes a devastatingly handsome smile. “Just the beautiful ones.”
It appears to please him when you laugh at his reply. “Careful, Rogers…Steve,” you correct when he raises a brow, “my father used to feed men to the sharks for less.”
“Good thing you’re not your father.”
You will never admit it aloud, but you are entertained by the man. No one seems to understand, except, apparently, the super soldier who's quietly challenging you. Your father ruled through fear. You rule through loyalty. Your father demanded respect. You earn it. Steve neither fears you nor is loyal to you, yet despite going against all he believes in, he respects you.
Standing, you take another sip of wine before moving toward the window. The city, your city, sprawls below your feet. A kingdom built on secrets—a throne made of whispered threats, owed favors, and corrupt deals.
Steve joins you. Not close enough to touch, but near enough to matter.
“You know,” you quietly say, “most people prefer to actively avoid being in debt to me.”
Steve’s gaze drops briefly to your mouth. The movement is quick, barely noticeable yet impossible to miss. “I think I’ll survive,” he states, “besides, I know you're intrigued.”
“Having the infamous Steve Rogers owe me a favor would be good for business.”
Though he outwardly remains stoic, you know he's smart enough to know the consequences of what his request means for him and his teammates. Still, he doesn't hesitate. “We just need a place to lay low.”
“Half the planet is out looking for you. It won’t be easy…or cheap.”
“You seem like you can handle the challenge.”
You give him a calculated, flirty smile. “Alright, Steve, let’s discuss details over dinner.”
The charming smile you receive is slow but certain, making you wonder whether you're dealing with a future ally or a formidable opponent.
For the first time in a very long time, you're uncertain if the most powerful person in the room is actually you.
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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.”
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.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
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.
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.
Summary: You witness something you shouldn't have, and Bullseye just wants to talk.
Word Count: 300
Playlist Prompt: I Wanna Be Bad - Willa Ford / “No I can't promise that I won't do that”
Warnings: Soft!Dark tone and vibes, mention of murder and blood, threat of violence (not against reader), Benjamin Poindexter (he's a warning, okay?).
A/N: Day 2 of the June Jukebox Scribbles Challenge by @societynsoelsscribbles . ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications as I no longer do taglists. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
Your hand shook as you locked the door, your heart pounding so fast it ached. You blinked tears away and did your best to steady your breathing. You had to calm down and think of soothing things.
But all you saw was blood. A pair of lifeless eyes staring at you. And that man standing above the body. You heard enough about him to know who he was…
Bullseye.
He saw you. Of course, he did. Luck was never on your side.
“Why did I take the garbage out tonight?” you muttered.
The gentle knock on your door jolted you.
“Hello?” the man asked, like he knew you were still close enough to hear him. “Listen, I didn’t mean to scare you in the alley.”
You took a step back. Could you find something to defend yourself? Something he couldn’t use against you?
“Just open the door, okay? I won’t hurt you. I promise!” He sounded so sincere you almost believed him. “He was a bad guy. I’m one of the good guys.”
You almost laughed at the irony. He murdered someone. How did that make him a good guy?
“Please,” he said, his voice taking on an edge that made you tremble. “If you don’t, I’ll have to get the key from the landlord.”
Your eyes widened. “Wait!” you begged, your breath shaky when you opened the door. “Just… please, don’t kill me.”
He smiled like a madman once he stepped inside, his mask gone.
“Kill you?” he asked, shaking his head. “No. I’d never.”
He carefully covered your mouth when you opened it, smothering your sounds.
“Don’t scream,” he whispered.
No, I can’t promise that I won’t do that.
“Let’s just talk,” he suggested, wiping a tear away tenderly. “And you’ll see that I’m a really good guy.”
First time writing for this man. What do we think? Maybe this can be expanded? Love and thanks for reading. ❤️
I'm sorry. If Benjamin Poindexter brushed a tear off my cheek, my knees would buckle. I would collapse, bestie. He'd have to catch me with those strong arms. Those deft fingers would have to - [redacted]
Summary: You get why people call Brendon "Park the Shark", and he notices you more than you realize.
Word Count: 300
Playlist Prompt: Mack the Knife - Bobby Darin / “And he shows them pearly white”
Warnings: Grumpy and sunshine dynamic if you squint, bit of fluff, reader is slightly thirsty, Brendon Park (he's a warning, okay?).
A/N: Day 3 of the June Jukebox Scribbles Challenge by @societynsoelsscribbles . ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications as I no longer do taglists. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
Park the Shark.
You understood quickly why people called Brendon that. Most of the Pitt were intimidated by him. He circled the place like a predator who knew was going to get his fill when he smelled blood in the water. The surgeon had the skills to back up his confidence, too, his focus sharp and his methods rapid and efficient. You believed he’d be at home in the ocean if he was a shark in another life.
But you also liked to believe that underneath his magnificent firm body that there was a soft spot.
Seriously though, how does he look so good in scrubs?
“Morning,” you called out when he walked by.
He paused and turned his head, his eyes narrowed.
“You’re early,” he said, his voice low and even.
You laughed and you swore you caught the corner of his mouth lift, like he was trying not to smile.
And he shows them pearly white.
“You say that like I’m not always early,” you teased.
“I know you are,” he uttered, angling his body to fully face you. “And you were here late last night.”
He noticed?
You shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “Case needed finishing, so I stayed.”
“Good work,” he said after a moment.
“Thanks, Park,” you said softly, your heart skipping a beat.
Dana, who stood a few feet away, stared at Brendon over her glasses. He was not a man who made small talk. He wasn’t the kind of person to throw out compliments for the hell of it either.
His jaw clenched, the subtle warmth in his eyes fading. “Let me know if anyone gives you a hard time,” he ordered before he walked away.
Dana raised an eyebrow at you.
“Not a word,” you mumbled.
But you were smiling.
Another first time character for me! What do we think? Love and thanks for reading. ❤️
Jake forces himself to finally clean the disaster zone his apartment has become. The place looks like he feels—barely functioning. Flight manuals precariously stacked on chairs, lesson plans strewn across the table, empty coffee cups seem to be breeding on every surface, and a laundry pile that looks about ready to start moving itself to the machine.
The cleaning helps him outrun the silence. Silence is the enemy because it gives him a place to wallow.
Silence reminds him that he can't call to hear your voice. There isn’t an email with venue choices waiting to be answered. No cute little notes taped to the fridge or the smell of his favorite meal cooking because you wanted to surprise him.
Silence reminds him of everything he lost.
Standing in the bedroom, he looks around. The apartment is clean, but it's empty …dreary. No colorful blanket is draped over the end of the bed, the single plant on the kitchen windowsill you left behind is beyond saving, and the bookshelves in the living room are nearly empty. He smiles, thinking about your meticulous organization process for them, but it makes his chest tighten. The traces of your life here may have been erased from the apartment, but his mind recalls them in vivid detail.
He's not ready to deal with it.
Yanking open the closet door to grab his gym bag, a box crashes against his shoulder, contents spilling onto the hardwood as it lands at his feet.
"Shit!" Rubbing his shoulder, he stares down at the mess and shakes his head, choking back a laugh. In his attempt to escape the memory of you, the box he’d packed with the things you'd forgotten physically assaults him.
He had scribbled “STUFF” on it in sloppy, angry writing, shoved it into the closet, and blocked it from his mind.
Crouching, he picks up a bottle of lotion with hair ties in various colors stretched around the bottle, then a paperback with dog-eared corners, a magnet he found while sweeping the kitchen, and several small trinkets. All get shoved back in the cardboard container. Your favorite purple hoodie taunts him from a few inches away, but a glint distracts him as he reaches for it. Resting against the floorboard is a tiny gold hoop.
He stares for a moment, then picks it up and stands. The memory hits him before he has a chance to toss it in with the other items. Flipping it between his fingers, he sinks onto the edge of his bed.
He'd found it tangled in the sheets and had torn apart the room when you realized its match was missing as well. You’d laughed at him the entire time.
“Babe, it’s just an earring, not a search and rescue operation.”
These aren’t forgotten items. These are the proof of the life you tried to live with him.
His eyes land on the hoodie, and before he fully thinks it through, it’s in his hands—a terrible idea because it smells like you.
Jake closes his eyes, “Damn it,” and lies back on the bed with the garment covering his face.
Though you don't feel quite ready, you agree to meet him. Neutral ground of a coffee shop halfway between your new place and base. Ironically, you moved closer but are so much further apart.
He's almost unrecognizable, not different, but tired …defeated. Jake Seresin is always put together, hair perfect, shirt pressed, cocky grin loaded and ready to fire. Today, he looks rough, as if someone had pulled a string to fray the edges.
Forever the gentleman, despite his normally smug armor—or whatever this is—he stands when you approach and waits for you to sit before sitting back down.
“Hey.”
You hate that your heart still squeezes at the sound of his voice. “Hey.”
Silence follows the greeting, like an awkward third party.
Jake eventually clears his throat and gestures to a chair nearby. “I have some of your stuff.”
“Oh, thanks.” You stare at the box, unsure of what else to say.
“The place is pretty empty." He tries to laugh, but it turns to a sigh as he scrubs a hand down his face. "I didn’t realize how much of you was there, and how little of me.”
Not able to meet his gaze, you fumble in your pocket for a moment. “I have something for you, too.” Pulling out the engagement ring, you slide it across the table.
“No.” Jake stares at it and looks like he might be ill.
Suddenly, breathing feels weird, and you want to take it back.
“Jake.”
“No.” When his eyes finally meet yours, panic seems to bloom in their depths. “It's yours. I don't want it back.”
You spent months twisting the ring around your finger while you ate dinner alone. While you slept alone in an empty bed. While you waited for calls. Your throat tightens, deep down, you didn't really want to give it back, but it's the right thing to do.
“You know what kills me?” He's averted his gaze back to the ring. “I kept thinking you left because you stopped loving me.” His jaw tightens. “You didn’t, though, did you.”
It's not a question, and even if it was, you aren't prepared to answer. “Jake.” You don't want to do this anymore. It feels like a jet is sitting on your chest. It hurts.
Jake continues as if you hadn't spoken. “You were building a life for us, a home, and I was too damn busy acting as if we’d always have time.”
It takes a conscious effort not to reach for him. It's exactly what you’d been begging him to understand. You didn't need flowers or promises. You just wanted him to be present. To give input on the small, mundane decisions that help create and sustain a partnership, like what color to paint the walls, choosing a fabric for the curtains, or picking a couch that you both like.
Tears blur your vision. “I wore it because I loved you, Jake. I took it off because I needed to love me too.”
His shoulders sag further, his features shifting into a numbness that's almost tangible, and you blink back tears. Jake cautiously picks up the ring, like he's afraid it might cut him.
Sliding his hand across the table, he stops short midway, fingers curling back. “I don’t know if I missed my shot,” he hoarsely whispers, “but if I did, I need you to know I finally see it. I see you.”
The words cut deep because six months ago, they would have prevented this exact scenario.
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Pairing: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Pregnant!Female Reader
Summary: During a fun and relaxing afternoon, Bucky overhears someone making fun of your body. He doesn’t take too kindly to that.
Word Count: Over 2.9k
Warnings: Established relationship, pregnancy, pet name (sweetheart for you, baby nicknamed Sprout), mention of stretch marks (they are beautiful), pregnant body shaming, threat of violence (not against reader), fluff, feels, domestic life, Steve and Sam are good friends, protective vibes, putting a jerk in his place (sorry if your name is Chet), Bucky Barnes (he's down bad and a warning, okay?).
A/N: What can I say, lovelies? I love a Bucky down bad and sticking up for you. Part of Soft Echoes, Strong Roots AU. ❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @mumbles411, but any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @saradika-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
It was meant to be a relaxing and fun afternoon.
Nothing major. Just a small gathering with a few familiar faces, some friends and agents, and good food. Maybe a few games, some music and conversations. Bucky only agreed because you batted your eyes and promised that you wouldn’t overdo it.
As if he could ever say “no” to you.
“You could smile a bit more, you know,” Steve teased, handing him a beer.
He scoffed, the bottle cool against his warm hand. “I am smiling,” he argued.
His general demeanor had improved since you came into his life. He liked to think he smiled more than he scowled most days. Well, at least he smiled more when you were around. Or when he thought of you, which was all the time.
So, yeah, his demeanor was much better.
“You only smile like that when you look at or think about your wife,” Steve pointed out, like he knew exactly what he was on his mind.
Bucky’s gaze softened immediately when he heard you laughing, watching you from where you stood a few feet away.
You were glowing.
A pregnancy glow, yes, combined with something warmer. The dress you picked somehow flowed while showing off the shape of your body perfectly. Your smile lit up your face and you had a hand on your belly like you’d done for weeks now without thinking. It was beautiful.
You were beautiful.
“Can you blame me for having a smile just for her?” Bucky asked.
“Not at all,” his best friend replied.
You shifted your weight before you took a seat, your smile brighter when you spotted Bucky watching you. He never strayed far from you. Didn’t even sip the drink in his hand. He had his eyes on you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
You and Sprout.
Pride flickered through his chest when his gaze dropped to your belly. His wife and his baby. His family.
Everyone was waiting on you hand and foot. At least, they tried to. The moment someone tried to bring you a drink or food, he stepped in. He couldn’t help himself. Once you were taken care of, he went back to his spot. The perfect place to keep an eye on his surroundings since some old habits died hard.
And you just smiled, soft and bright.
Steve nudged him with his shoulder. “You deserve this, you know.”
Bucky swallowed hard. It didn’t always feel like he did. The past liked to seep into his mind at unexpected moments and make the world look a little darker. Depending on the day, he’d either hug you close or take you to bed to drown out the noise. Sometimes both.
And no matter what, you made the world look brighter again.
“So, you’re saying I deserved to knock up my wife?” he joked to deflect.
The blonde snorted. “Yeah, that’s what I’m saying,” he said, giving him a small smile. “Also saying you deserve this life.”
His chest tightened when you laughed at a joke Sam made, your head tipping back slightly and your hand going back to your belly. There was no fight to worry about. No past to haunt him. Just small precious moments like this.
His lips twitched upward when you found his gaze again, your love for him burning bright in your eyes.
He did deserve this kind of life.
“Thanks, punk,” he mumbled, clinking their bottles together.
“Jerk.”
You turned your attention back to Sam and Bucky pushed off the wall to move closer before a voice stopped him.
Something low and careless.
“Is that chair gonna break? Jesus Christ, she’s fucking huge. How many are in there?”
The thought of domesticity and peace left Bucky’s mind, replaced by something cold and dangerous.
You were blissfully unaware that some prick had just insulted your beautiful body, still smiling and enjoying yourself. As you should be. You only deserved good things. No one else around you seemed to notice the change in the atmosphere either.
But Steve stiffened out of the corner of his eye. He heard it. They both heard it.
Super soldier senses really were handy at times.
Ice took over the blue of his eyes, his head slowly turning to look at the fucker stupid enough to open his mouth and even breath the same oxygen as you. A new agent with a very punchable face who wore too much cologne. There was a good chance that you kept your distance for that very reason since some smells still overwhelmed you. The snickering prick certainly wasn’t a friend of his or yours. He was only “invited” because someone else thought it would be good for him to hang out outside of work.
That wouldn’t happen again.
“Better snag a brownie before she stuffs her face with the whole tray.”
My wife can have all the fucking brownies she wants, you fucking piece of shit.
The bottle in his hand began to crack. It would shatter if he kept squeezing. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself.
Not yet.
“You know that’s Barnes’s wife, right?” The asshole’s friend shifted uncomfortably. “She’s really nice, and he’s… well, he’s pretty protective of her.”
Bucky’s gaze flicked back to you, much softer, before looking at the soon-to-be-dead fucker again.
No. Can’t kill the guy. I have a wife and kid to think about.
The prick had the nerve to laugh. “So? Does that give her a pass to look like a whale?”
…He’s fucking dead.
Steve took the cracked bottle from his hand. “Want me to handle him?” he asked, his voice low.
He exhaled through his nose. Steve didn’t like bullies. Never had. But he knew why he was asking instead of just stepping in and taking care of it.
Because you were his wife. His to defend. His to love and care for.
This was his fight.
“I got this,” he replied, subtly nodding to where you were sitting. “Just keep an eye out for a minute?”
Steve nodded in understanding, positioning himself to block your line of sight without looking too obvious.
Bucky took deliberate steps toward the table, his movements controlled and measured. His jaw tightened the closer he got, his fingers itching to toss the guy out with his bare hands. He wouldn’t cause a scene out of respect for you.
But he wasn’t going to stay silent.
The atmosphere shifted the second he got to the table, the chatter ceasing immediately.
The prick, of course, had the nerve to smile.
“Hey, man! You-”
“You got something to say about my wife?” he asked, his voice as cold as his stare.
The man’s eyes widened, maybe from shock that he was overheard or that he was being confronted. “I… What?”
Had no problem using your words seconds ago, asshole.
“You were talking about her.” Bucky tilted his head slightly, his eyes flat and unreadable. “My wife.”
The air shifted more, something cold settling over the surroundings as the guy sputtered to come up with an excuse.
“Say it again,” he ordered, placing his hands on the table and leaning down to his eye level. He made sure there was no warmth in his expression. “Where I can really hear you.”
The idiot swallowed and looked to his friend for help and found none; his friend was suddenly very interested in the beer in his hand. “Um… Barnes, I-”
“My wife, the love of my life, is carrying my child. Our child.” His lip raised in a small snarl and he leaned in enough that Agent Asshole had to back up. “And you think you can sit here and make fun of her? You think I won’t do something about it?”
“I-It was a bad joke,” he tried to reason.
Reasoning only worked with people when they were in a forgiving mood.
He wasn’t.
“Oh, now it’s a joke? You think you’re funny?” He smiled with no trace of friendliness behind it. It was likely how a wolf looked baring their teeth before sinking them into their prey. “You think I’ll laugh while you crack ‘jokes’ about my wife?”
The prick looked like he was a heartbeat away from pissing himself, which made Bucky question the hiring process for agents. This sort of “interrogation” was nothing. Child’s play.
Then again, how many agents could say they had the former Winter Soldier in their space?
“I-I really didn’t mean-”
“Don’t.” His voice dropped even lower. “Don’t insult my intelligence.”
He glanced back and saw Sam looking his way, his eyes narrowing when he sensed the tension. Steve subtly shook his head. There was no reason to intervene. He was still in control.
Barely.
But you were still smiling, which was the important thing.
“You know what I see when I look at her?” he asked rhetorically, his chest tight. “I see the strongest person I’ve ever met.”
He smacked his hand on the table hard enough to make the bottles rattle and the guys flinch.
Sam, thankfully, chose to tell another joke at the same time and Steve cackled so the noise at the table wouldn’t draw your attention.
I really do have good friends.
“I’ll say it again. She’s carrying our baby. She’s uncomfortable and exhausted and guess what? She still walks into a room smiling and thinks of others first. And you sit here and act like she’s something to mock when she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” His jaw clenched even as his heart swelled with pride. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
The guy shrank lower as every word washed over him.
Good.
Bucky stared at him for another long moment before something colder settled into place behind his eyes.
“Get up, Chet,” he ordered.
“Chet’s” mouth fell open. “That’s not my-”
“I know what your name is, and I don’t care,” he cut him off, straightening up. “Because you don’t respect my wife, so I refuse to respect you.”
A bright shade of red passed through his cheeks before he paled.
As someone who was stripped of his own agency for years, identity mattered to Bucky. Basic decency mattered. So, maybe it was a little petty to call him by the wrong name, but it was also a good way to put him in his place by letting him know he didn’t matter.
Chet, as his name was Chet to him now, got to his feet on shaky legs. “Sorry.”
“I’m sure you are sorry now, but it’s a little too late for that.”
Bucky clamped a hand on the back of his neck. To just about anyone looking over, it would’ve looked casual. Almost friendly. But they would’ve missed the firm squeeze.
“Move.”
The prick didn’t need to be told twice.
He guided him away from the table and made sure to smile as he did so. He shot his friend a quick glare for good measure, but at least he stuck up for you. That was the only reason he didn’t make him leave, too.
The chatter continued behind him, but he barely noticed it over the sound of Chet’s pounding heart and his own blood roaring loudly in his ears. But then he heard your laughter and he took a deep breath, picturing your loving smile and hand on your belly.
It kept him from snapping completely.
Once they were in the driveway, Bucky shoved him forward. Hard. He stumbled, but somehow managed to stay on his feet. He wished he could punch him for good measure, but he seemed like the type of coward who would cry and call the cops.
Even if they let him off with a warning, he didn’t want to add any stress to your plate.
“Christ, man,” Chet muttered.
“You stay the fuck out of my house and never come back,” Bucky said, his voice low and lethal as he stepped forward. “And don’t you ever disrespect my wife again.”
Chet nodded quickly. Too quickly. “I won’t.”
Bucky looked every bit like the Winter Soldier wrapped in civilian clothing when he added, “You’ll never speak about her like that again. You’ll never look at her like that again. And you sure as hell will never come near my family again.”
“I understand,” he swore, his voice cracking.
“Good.” Bucky’s nostrils flared as he looked him over one last time, disgust curling in his stomach. “And the next time you come across someone pregnant, maybe try showing them some goddamn respect.”
He looked down at his feet, avoiding his gaze and swallowing any excuse he had left to give.
Fucking coward.
Bucky pointed toward the street. “Get the fuck out of my sight.”
The idiot practically ran to his car.
Bucky glared as he drove down the street, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck once he disappeared. He exhaled the remainder of his anger through his mouth, his hand moving through his hair. There was nothing to be upset about anymore. Agent Asshole was gone and now he could get back to you.
Where he belonged.
The second he walked back to the yard, his eyes found you automatically.
Still smiling, safe, and his.
He grabbed a couple of brownies from the tray before he walked over, giving Steve and Sam two nods. One to let them know everything was fine. The other to thank them for shielding you from that display.
They nodded in return.
You were his wife and family, but you were their family, too.
“There’s my handsome husband. I wondered where you went off to for a minute.” You smiled up at him when he approached, his heart skipping a beat. “You okay?”
Bucky stared at you in awe.
God, she’s so fucking beautiful it makes my chest ache.
Up close, your glow was even brighter. You looked at him like he put the sun in the sky just for you. He would if he could. And your belly moved slightly under your hands, and he wanted to feel Sprout move, too.
“I should be asking you that,” he replied, his brows furrowing. “Are you okay? Are you thirsty? Hungry?”
He observed you carefully, looking for signs of discomfort or fatigue. The conversation with Chet and kicking him out didn’t take very long, but it felt like hours now being apart from you. Steve and Sam had been watching over you, but it wasn’t the same.
“I’m just fine,” you assured him, and he knew you weren’t just saying that for his benefit. “But you didn’t answer my question,” you added teasingly.
Always thinking of me.
“Yeah,” he murmured, gentler than he had spoken all day. “Everything’s fine now.”
You studied him for a moment, sensing something underneath the surface. He didn’t falter under your gaze. There was no need to.
“Everything’s fine now, which means it wasn’t fine before,” you guessed.
Bucky sighed. He should’ve known you’d feel that something was off. You were too intuitive for your own good. That was one of the things he loved about you. And part of him loving you was trying to protect you from harm, physically, mentally, or verbally.
But there was also no hiding from you, even when he did his best to shield you.
“Just… needed to throw some trash out,” he said carefully.
It was true.
Chet was trash.
“That’s one way of putting it,” Steve muttered into his drink, making Sam snort.
Before you could question him further, he set the brownies down and crouched slightly in front of your chair so he could rest a hand gently over your belly. He didn’t chastise Sam for snapping a photo, and he didn’t care who saw him like this. The two of you were his world and he wasn’t going to pretend otherwise.
“Hey, Sprout,” he murmured, his entire expression softening. “You behaving for your mama?”
The baby kicked almost immediately beneath his palm.
He smiled wide, making him temporarily forget about the dickhead he just threw out.
“Sprout’s just fine, too,” you promised, placing your hand on his, your gaze thoughtful. “You sure you’re okay?”
He leaned up slowly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He remembered sitting on the couch and comforting you after the mean voice in your head made you doubt that you’d be a good mom. And how you didn’t think your stretch marks were pretty but he thought they were so beautiful. You were so strong and inspiring. His wife. The mother of his child.
He wasn’t about to ruin your fun and relaxing afternoon by telling you what happened.
But as much as he wanted to protect you, he would tell you later once everyone left because he refused to keep secrets from you. There was a good chance you’d cry. Not because of the cruel words spoken or hormones, but because he stuck up for you so fiercely. He would always stick up for his family.
And if you wanted him to punish Chet even more, he’d do it without question.
That was how much he loved you.
And he’d take you to bed later, kissing and touching every inch of you he could. He’d make you feel beautiful and cherished if any of your insecurities began to surface. He’d silence any mean voice in your head, hopefully for good, the same way you drowned out the horrors he experienced and made him feel loved.
I love you both so much.
“Yeah, sweetheart,” he whispered, glancing down at your stomach with so much love. “I’m better than okay.”
We all deserve to have someone in our corner. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
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Today your shift in the pitt started off great but soon became slightly intolerable.
Two words. James Ogilvie.
An R4 at the pitt, same as you. He was newer to the pitt and you, being a seasoned resident here, got the privilege curse of having him with you for the first few weeks.
Honestly he wasn't that bad at first but it seemed like something new came up with him every shift. Truly a thorn in your side.
It also turns out he is definitely into you.
That poses its own issues with him always asking you questions and following you closely every shift.
The worst is the constant flirting. Corny at first but now it's like nails on a chalkboard. It truly is harmless which is why you've never brought up being married or who your husband is.
It's not something you broadcast. But you keep a constant reminder with your wedding ring on a chain that's tucked securely under your scrub top.
Despite wanting to yell, you refrain. You typically laugh off his attempts to joke or flirt with a slight laugh or politely declining advances.
You’re handing him over to Langdon soon anyways.
Only a few more hours.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
At some point you lose Ogilvie among a series of incoming traumas and don’t bother finding him just yet. He’ll likely find you first.
After finishing a chart, you lay your head on the nurses station counter.
The only thing getting you through this shift is knowing you get to leave early today, followed by date night with your husband. The thought alone has you smiling to yourself.
You glance at the clock and it reads ‘3 p.m.’
“Finallyyy!” you groan as you go to clock out and grab your things.
After you grab your stuff, you're headed to the door when Frank catches your attention from an empty exam room “Woah where's the fire?” he jokes. Okay you might have been moving at a brisk walk, eager to leave and get ready.
“There will be one if I don't get out of here” you huff with a laugh glancing over your shoulder “Ogilvies all yours Langdon!”
He shakes his head laughing “You owe me!” he answers back just as you make it out the sliding doors.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
It's three hours later and here you are back at the hospital. This time you're happy to walk in knowing it's not for another shift.
You're dressed in an outfit you had just recently gotten, specifically for tonight. Your hair is washed and styled, and you even had time for a light makeup look.
You walk up to the nurses station where you find Trinity, Dana, and Frank.
Dana greets you first. “Look at you hot stuff! Hot date I assume?”
“You’d assume correctly” you laugh, a blush covering your cheeks.
Trinity leans forward on the desk “Does he work here?” curiosity in her eyes.
“Yes actually, he's a surgeon” you smile, giving no more hints.
Your three friends gasp at the new information. “Okay you have to tell us who he is” trinity pleas with anticipation.
“Yeah honey, who's the lucky guy?” Dana chimes in with a smile.
Hmmm. You thought. Let's make this juicy.
You bring up your left hand that is adorned with your wedding ring “My husband”
A bright smile grows on your face as you watch the three around you stare at your hand in absolute shock.
“YOU’RE MARRIED??” Trinity all but yells
She gently grabs your hand to examine the ring closer “SINCE WHEN?”
“Yeah, since when!? You've never mentioned a relationship, let alone a marriage!” Dana says with wide eyes and examines the ring too. “It’s gorgeous though honey” she smiles
Frank still stands in shock, jaw dropped “WOW… talk about plottwist”
“I just know whoever he is, he does not play about you” Trinity says while releasing your hand.
The four of you laugh at her comment until another voice speaks up “Who's married?”
Oh my god. Of allll people.
Ogilvie comes striding up, eyes finding you immediately.
“Holy shit girl, you're hot as hell” he says with a smile, eyes roaming your figure.
Frank comes up to your side “Back off Ogilvie, not happening”
“Yeah dingus” Trinity adds as she joins Frank at your side “and did you not just hear, she's married” she emphasizes.
Ogilvie scoffs “Duh Santos, that's why I asked. But here's the real question” he leans forward slightly towards you “Are you happily married?”
You raise your eyebrows and go to reply but he continues.
“Because this so-called husband of yours isn't even here. What kind of man lets someone as gorgeous as you out of his sight?” he questions with a slight smile, clearly believing he's made a great point.
Before he can continue, a gruff voice speaks up from behind him.
“Who says I do?”
Ogilvie turns around and his stomach drops at who he finds. Brendon Park. The shark. As he was about to quickly find out.
Park stalks up slowly from behind Oglivie, hands clasped behind his back, circling the resident.
“And you wonder if she’s happily married right? I’d say very by the way she can't take her eyes off me, don’t ya think?” He smiles smugly.
He looks directly at Ogilvie “Olive tree was it?”
“I-uh-um it’s uh Ogilvie…” he stutters out.
Park shrugs his shoulders “Same thing and still of no concern to me. The same way my wife is of no concern to you.”
He goes to take a step towards the shell-shocked resident before he's stopped by your voice.
“Hey handsome” you coo at him, gravitating towards him with a hug around his waist. His chilling demeanor slips almost immediately as he wraps you into his chest, as if shielding you from any and everything.
You’re only for him.
“Hey sweet girl” he mutters while laying his cheek against your head.
“Almost ready to go?” You look up at him.
“Yeah baby, just gotta grab my things from the office. Walk with me?” He says while pulling away, hands still holding onto yours, gently persuading you to follow. Of course that was no hard ask. You’d follow this man to the ends of the earth if he asked.
“Why yes Dr. Park, lead the way” smiling softly you let him drag you along, pulling you into his side, arm around your shoulder.
Ogilvie stands there with Trinity and Frank.
“You’re such a dumbass” Trinity breaks the silence .
Frank chuckles at that “Yeah olive tree you just became fish food for the shark”
Ogilvie looks at the couple, still in shock at the fact his fellow resident & never gonna happen crush is married to Brendon Park.
He sighs in defeat “Of fucking course she would belong to the shark.”
Summary: An offhand remark unites the unlikely team.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: banter, implied threats of violence/death.
W/C: 727
Characters: Rick Flag, Harley Quinn, Bloodsport, Peacemaker, King Shark, Amanda Waller.
Word of the day (May 23, 2026) - Chuck
Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
Mission briefings reminded you of a high school assembly—a special form of psychological warfare. The missions were always a shit show. Run toward danger, take out the target or grab the intelligence, and don’t die in the process. The briefings, however, were the real battlefield.
Task Force X, the self-appointed ‘cool kids’, sat as close to the back of the tiny auditorium as physically possible, as if they were expecting the room to suddenly fill up and force them into assigned seating, when in reality it was only ever them.
The place felt like a morgue. Didn’t smell much better either. The screen at the front of the room glowed with maps and satellite images nobody was paying attention to, because the Suicide Squad collectively possessed the attention span of six caffeinated toddlers locked in a toy store.
Harley sat upside down in her chair, chewing gum and popping bubbles obnoxiously loud. King Shark was eating something out of a paper bag that you wisely decided not to ask about. Peacemaker and Bloodsport were quietly arguing over which one of them had the better kill count.
And at the front of it all stood Amanda Waller, looking perfectly composed and calm as always.
“...failure,” Waller continued, clicking to the next slide, “is not an option.”
Translation: failure means you die. Whether that was from the mission itself or Waller getting bored and pressing the button on her phone, currently clutched in her hand, was mostly a technicality.
You stared at the screen, then at her, then back at the screen. She’d spent the last twenty minutes explaining a mission that involved armed mercenaries, secret underground tunnels, and intelligence that looked like it had been gathered by someone throwing darts at a conspiracy board.
This wasn’t a mission. It was a group project with explosives. You clenched your jaw.
Seated next to you, Rick noticed your tension. He leaned in, fist pressed against the side of his mouth, to hide it from Waller. “She’s not worth it.”
“I didn’t say anything,” you said through clenched teeth.
“Didn’t need to. Your face is saying it for you.”
“How would you know what my face is saying?”
“I pay attention.”
Waller continued, “If any of you deviate from the mission parameters...” She trailed off as she held up her phone.
You felt your blood pressure rise. The threat, the show of power, was ever-present.
“One day somebody’s gonna chuck a chair at her,” you hissed under your breath.
Silence. Then Rick made a strange, almost inaudible choking sound, and his shoulders shook with the effort of restraint. He had mastered the art of not overtly laughing, which somehow made it worse.
It wasn’t funny. Okay, it was. As threats go, a chair was not all that scary.
“You good there, Colonel?” Bloodsport asked.
Rick coughed, “Fine,” sitting up straighter.
Harley’s voice came from directly behind you, “Hypothetically,” closer than she had been a second ago. She’d moved three rows without anyone noticing.
She was leaning between your seats, eyes wide with interest, as if someone had just whispered ‘crime’ three times into a mirror. “Hypothetically,” she repeated, staring way too intently at Amanda. “Are we talkin’ folding chair? Office chair? One of those little metal WWE-lookin’ ones?”
Rick's eyes widened. “No. No Chairs.”
“Hypothetically, though?”
“No hypotheticals.” Rick spat in a whisper.
Harley looked offended. “You’re no fun,” she pouted.
“Yeah, Colonel,” you agreed. “Way to crush creativity.”
“Are we throwing for distance or accuracy?” Bloodsport asked.
“Spin matters,” Peacemaker added.
“You want good aerodynamics.” Harley nodded.
“Why do you know chair aerodynamics?” you asked.
“Why don’t you?”
You bit down on your lip, looking at your desk. Do not look at Rick. Do not make eye contact. If you made eye contact, you were done for.
“Is there a question?” Waller asked.
Nobody moved or breathed.
The world's longest ten seconds passed. Waller made pointed eye contact with each of you in turn, then returned to the irrelevant slideshow.
Rick leaned toward you. “If I die today, I’m haunting you.”
You looked at him, feigning innocence. “You laughed.”
“I hid it.”
You scoffed quietly. “Shoulders don’t lie, Colonel.”
Harley tutted, “Ugh, just kiss already.”
Rick closed his eyes and shook his head. “I hate every single person in this room right now.”
“Aww,” King Shark said, “group bonding.”
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You're the only woman ben hooks up with anymore- but he thinks your ashamed of him. Time to prove him wrong.
|• MDNI (18+!) |• cw: jealous!Ben, unprotected P-I-V, oral (fem!receiving), creampie, cold!Ben but he warms up, hooking up, quickies
W.c: 1.8k (not proofread)
Ever since you've joined the group, you've had your eyes on Ben.
How could you not? Yeah, hes scary, hes the soldier boy, for fucks sake. but you cant help the way your knees wobble slightly everytime he speaks to you in his rough tone.
A rainy evening rolls in. The safehouse smells like motor oil, cheap beer and damp concrete. But it always does. Ben is sprawled across the ratty couch like he owned the place, boots on the coffee table while hughie argued with frenchie in the kitchen about explosives- atleast it sounds like it. You sit cross-legged on the floor, cleaning blood off a knife.
"...why d'ya always stare at me like that,"
he drawls. "People are gonna think you like me." You didnt even look up.
"People think alot when the days long."
He grunts. The thing was- you hadn't meant to stare. You never do- it just comes naturally. It started ugly and impulsive after a mission had gone sideways.
Adrenaline. Screaming. Bruises. The two of you alone in some ratty motel bathroom while water from the shower collected on the tile floor to drown out the noise.
One minute, you were yelling at him for nearly getting MM killed, the next he had your wrists pinned against cracked tile and you were kissing him hard enough to make his lips hurt. Not that he'd care. After that, it became a pattern. Quick, secretive, never discussed. Quick fucks against walls, in abandoned motels, even in the safehouse late at night when everyone was asleep, a hand slapped over your mouth to muffle any noise from your mouth while he rammed his cock into you.
And soldier boy- who had spent decades fucking his way across America without a second thought, realized one evening in a bar that he hadn't touched another woman in months.
Not because he couldnt.
No- because he didnt want to. Which was fucking ridiculous. He told himself it didnt mean anything when you rested your head on his chest after sex. Didnt mean anything when you absentmindedly played with the chain around his neck while half asleep.
Or on that quiet afternoon. You angered him on a mission, and fuck if he could wait until you're back at the safehouse. He cant. Thats why he has you on some scrappy, dirty floor, fucking you hard in prone-bone. The tip of his thick cock slams into that perfect, spongy spot inside your warm cunt, and you feel like you might cry. With your cheek smushed against the floor, and feet dangling weakly behind you, your hand reaches out, searching for something to hold onto while every harsh thrust inches you a little forward, and your hand finds his. Your eyebrows knit together while his scruff tickles the sensitive skin of your throat, and he quickly pulls out, still holding onto your hand while his warm cum shoots all over your back.
Not even that meant anything-....right?
That afternoon had stayed with Him. Your palm against his, breathing uneven and eyes squeezed shut while he held on so tight he thought me might break your fingers. People who were just fuck-buddies didnt do that. Right? But then the next day you'd barely look at him infront of the others. Like he embarassed you.
The bar is crowded and loud, neon signs reflecting blue and pink against sticky and nasty floors. Ben sits alone in some dusty corner, nursing whiskey while Butcher hustles some idiot at pool. You're sat at the bar waiting for drinks when some guy slides up beside you. Young. Pretty. Smug. Ben watches your face carefully over the rim of his glass, a perfect eyebrow slightly raised. The guy says something that makes you laugh politely, and then- he touches your arm. Soldier boys jaw tightens.
What. The fuck?
...why is he even mad- you're just fuck buddies, but hes still halfway to standing when you shake your head and say something short. Final. He cant hear it but the guy looks annoyed. You glance across the room one time- directly at Ben. Automatically, the guy hitting on you looks over too- but once he catches sight of the massive supe glaring holes through him, he basically evaporates. Right after, you grab your drinks and walk straight back to ben's booth.
"You looked homicidal,"
you smile a little, sliding him a Beer.
"I am homicidal."
At his words you snort softly and scooch into the booth next to him, slightly close like its instinct. Warm. Easy. His arm settled along the back of the booth behind you.
"You could've gone with him,"
he says casually, making your brows furrow. "Why would i do that?" He shrugs, pretending not to care. You stare at him for a second too long before looking away.
And only two nights later, you're back at it. Stubble scratching along your thighs, you moan quietly. He eats you out like a man starving, ridiculously- plump lips wrapping around your clit and sucking on it with a loud slurp.
Jesus Christ, hes a real womanizer. His beefy arms wrap around your thighs, stopping you from squirming with ease- one of your hands tangled in his hair while the other one braces against the sheets.
"....mm-, fuck-"
you whisper breathlessly. He only hums in response. "....mhmm?.."
A floorboard creaks outside.
Both of you freeze.
Then comes footsteps.
Your eyes widen in Panic. "Fuck-" and the doorknob rattles. In one panicked- intrusive reaction, you shove at ben's face with your foot.
Hard.
He stumbles backward with a loud thud into the nightstand. "OW-- Jesus fucking--"
"Shhh!" The door cracked open and inch. "Everything okay?" Hughie asks sleepily. He heard whining. You sit upright instantly, clutching your blanket to your chest while ben crouched besides the bed, rubbing his jaw with murder in his eyes. "Fine!-" you squeak. "I--uh--nightmare,."
Hughie blinks. "....Right. okay." The door shut.
Silence.
Ben slowly looked up at you.
"You kicked me in the fuckin' face." You'd almost be scared of him right now if you werent so caught off guard.
"I panicked-!"
"You panic like a goddamn mule."
You bury your face in your hands. "I'm-...sorry-."
But he barely hears you. Not because of the kick to his face- because all he could think of was how terrified you'd looked at the idea of someone finding out.
Not embarassed.
Terrified. Of him.
Something cold settles in his chest. Colder than it always does.
So he pulls away after that. Subtle at first.
He stops touching you casually. Stops sitting beside you. Stops lingering after missions to trade sarcastic comments while everyone else cleans up.
And you notice.
Of course you notice.
He can tell by the way your eyes track him across rooms now. By the little crease between your brows whenever he brushes past you without stopping.
Still, neither of you say anything.
Until one night, you finally corner him in the kitchen after everyone else went to sleep.
"You're avoiding me."
Ben scoffs, swallowing. Not nervous. Not really. Just....tense. "You're paranoid."
"Bullshit." You hiss.
Making you flinch, he slams the fridge shut harder than necessary. "Maybe i got tired of sneakin' around like your dirty little secret."
Your face falls.
The instant regret hits him like a truck, but he keeps going because hes soldier boy.
"You act like people finding out about us would be the end of the fuckin' world."
"Thats not---"
"You kicked me in the face because hughie touched a doorknob."
"I panicked!"
"Why?" His voice cracks through the Kitchen sharper than intended.
"Why are you so scared of people knowing, huh? Are you so ashamed of me?"
You stare at him like he'd slapped you. Then you laugh once- small and disbelieving.
"Ashamed of you?-"
"Sure looks like it."
"Oh my god." You drag both hands down your face before stepping closer.
"Ben, i'm- scared because this team is already hanging together by threads and if Butcher realizes we're involved he wil absolutely use it against us-"
He says nothing.
You swallow the lump in your throat, shaking your head. "You really thought i was embarassed of you?"
"When people get close to me," he says quietly, "it usually ends badly."
The honesty in that nearly breaks your heart. His expression had gone guarded in a way you rarely saw-- less arrogant, less untouchable. Just...tired.
You step closer slowly, fingers curling in the front of his shirt.
"I turn other men down because i want you," you mumble softly. "I sleep in your bed whenever i can, because i want to. There's no other guy who's hand i hold during sex-..."
His eyes search yours carefully, like he doesent trust what hes hearing.
"And for the record," you add, voice trembling slightly, "if someone had opened that bedroom door while you were eating me out? I would've died of humiliation because they caught me completely in love with you."
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Then ben kissed you.
Not rough this time,- not hungry. Just deep- and wrecked and relieved.
His hands cradle your face like something precious while your arms wrap around his neck.
"You love me..?" He mutters against your mouth like the words still confused him. His rough hands trail up your waist under your shirt.
You laugh shakily. "Unfortunately."
A huff escapes him- almost a laugh.
Then he buries his face in the crook of your shoulder, eyes closed.
"Mh,"
A few soft kisses get pressed against the smooth line of your throat, making you exhale shakily while one of your hands braces on his chest.
Your and ben's heavy breathing fills the room. His hands tug your pants off, and your hands fumble with his sweatpants too. Of course hes not wearing any underwear. Pig. Biting down on your lower lip, you spit into your palm and stroke up and down his length a few times, before he pushes your panties aside and lines up with your pretty cunt.
God, hes missed it.
Once he bottoms out in you, a grunt leaves him and a quiet moan leaves you. Every thrust feels different from the other times- Like you both finally admitted something thats been killing you. Your hands scramble for leverage on the counter and the back of your head hits the cupboard with a deep thrust. If only you could bring yourself to care. Your arms wrap around his neck.
"Nnh- mh-mh-mh-...shit..."
You pant. His hips move faster and faster until he finally throws both of you over the edge, bodys locking up and limbs tangled with eachother. He pulls out of you, his cum leaking out of you with ease.
Summary: Nothing is ever easy with Task Force X, you should have known better.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: peril, danger, canon type situation. W/C: 538. Pairing: None.
Word of the day (May 21, 2026) - Agree
Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
Amanda Waller had said it was a simple “Reconnaissance mission.” Surveillance. Observation from a safe distance. Harmless spy work with a fancy title.
The term 'simple' should have been enough of a warning, because nothing is ever simple when it involves Task Force X.
‘Easy’ was the word Rick used. “An easy recon mission.”
Apparently, you are surrounded by liars.
The two of you are currently crouched behind a crumbling stone wall near an abandoned warehouse. “I still don’t understand why I had to come,” you hiss.
The place is like something out of a post-apocalyptic nightmare. Rusted metal beams jut into the dark sky like fingers reaching for the heavens, to escape the hell within. The room you just escaped from was grimy with dust and substances you really don't want to think about, covering every surface. It was thick enough to write your last will and testament in, and the way things were going, you might need to.
Rick spares a glance at you, “Because you’re good at recon,” then picks a chunk of something off your cheek.
“Mm.”
“And you wanted more field experience.”
Narrowing your eyes, you chastise, “That sounds suspiciously like you’re using my own words against me.”
His mouth twitches. “I would never.”
He loses the battle with the smile as you continue to stare him down. The audacity is breathtaking. You’ve known Rick long enough to recognize the signs. The way his features subtly shift—the almost smile, eyes creasing slightly at the corners, the lower pitch of his voice— when he knows he's winning an argument.
“Don’t look smug.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. Your face is doing a thing.”
“My face is not doing anything.”
His face is absolutely doing a thing, but before you can continue your very reasonable argument, Harley’s voice comes through the comms.
“Soooo.” She pauses. “Tiny issue.”
Rick's sigh is immediate, chin hitting his chest, as his head drops with a shake. “Here we go.” This man, who has lived through several wars, dealt with loss and destruction, and suffers through countless battles with Waller, finds Harley Quinn more stressful and exhausting than anything he's ever been put through. “What did you do?”
“I may have pushed a button.”
A brief moment of dead silence, and then Rick tilts his head back with a groan. “Harley...”
“In my defense, it was a very pushable button.”
Seconds later, a cacophony of dissonance fills the night, like an orchestra without a conductor. Sirens scream, metal doors screech, voices shout commands, truck engines roar to life, all against the backdrop of flashing red lights and bright white search beams.
Rick taps your arm and tilts his head to indicate direction.
“No!" you growl.
“No?” he huffs back.
Rick's expression morphs to the same one he uses when dealing with Harley, and it stings a bit. “I didn’t agree to this.”
He's done talking. "You did," he gruffly states, as he secures his gun, preparing to stand.
“I agreed to recon.” Gunfire erupts on your left. “I agreed to observe. To binoculars and note-taking!"
Rick grabs your arm and pulls you up with him, commanding, “MOVE!”
Covering his back, you angrily shout, “I DID NOT AGREE TO THIS!”
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Summary: The danger has passed but emotions are still running high.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: bit of angst, bit of fluff. W/C: 845 Pairing: Bradley x Reader.
Word of the day (May 20, 2026) - Wreck
Notes: Follow on from Chaos In The Clouds
Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
Despite the personal relationship with Rooster, you have to remain calm and confident and finish your job. Assessments have to be taken, reports have to be written and filed, and now there is an unscheduled meeting to attend.
Emotions will have to wait. Besides, you aren't sure whether you want to slap Bradley upside the head or kiss him stupid for scaring you like that. Either way, it's probably best to delay seeing him. A full-fledged breakdown in front of the team and your commanding officers would not be professional.
As soon as you're dismissed from the meeting, you head straight for your office. Leaning against the closed door, your carefully crafted composure finally drops. Body trembling, you breathe deeply to keep from hyperventilating. When your wobbly legs allow, you grab your keys from your drawer and speed-walk to your car.
The pilots had been released hours ago, so you know they are at the Hard Deck by now. After narrowly missing being involved in a car wreck, you make it safely into the parking lot, the car bouncing as you slam it into park.
Upon entering, your eyes immediately zone in on the pool table area. It's where they always gravitate to. Relief is expelled on a deep sigh at seeing them all together, smiling and joking like any other ordinary day. Only, this hadn't been an ordinary day, and you are still feeling the aftershocks.
Fanboy spots you first. “Here comes the lady of the hour,” he calls.
With a tight smile, you tease, “Sucking up will not earn you more points, Fanboy.”
Catching Bradley's eye and seeing the firm set of his brow despite the smile, emotions begin to surge. Apparently sensing the rising tension in you, he broadens his smile and proudly quips, "I deserve extra points for style.”
“Negative, Rooster,” Hangman says, pocketing a ball on the table. “I think you lose points for almost becoming a cautionary tale.”
Of course, the teasing doesn’t stop. The worry they all carried released in their taunting jabs. Silently, you agree with Hangman, though you’d never say it aloud.
Rooster rolls his eyes, then focuses back on you, still getting one last taunt in. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Hangman.” He gives you a subtle nod toward the back door.
“Someone’s still high on surviving,” you tease, trying to sound amused.
Hangman smirks. “He’s been insufferable for three hours.”
“Three?” you ask, moving toward the back door.
Fanboy snorts into his drink. “Three hours, twelve minutes,”
“And seventeen seconds,” Phoenix adds as if they’d rehearsed it.
Holding the door open for you, Rooster points at her. “Nobody asked you.”
The evening air outside is cool, and you welcome the crisp ocean breeze and the soft sounds of waves rolling onto shore—a backdrop to the now muffled laughter spilling from inside. It's a little surreal. Life would have carried on even if today had turned out differently.
Bradley is here, flesh and blood. You could reach out and touch him, gaze into those soulful eyes, but you don't. Those terrifying moments are playing on a loop in your mind, churning up all the 'what ifs'.
Sliding up next to you, he shoves his hands in his pockets. “So,” he says carefully.
“So.”
A beat passes.
“You mad?” The incredulous look you give him makes him bob his head. “Right. Stupid question.”
“Affirmative,” you huff, crossing your arms over your chest.
“Oh crap," he stands up straighter, "you’re using the voice.”
“What voice?”
“That voice.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Except you do. It’s not his fault, but seeing him drinking and laughing with the team after struggling through the rest of the day with the weight of what could have been is overwhelming. He’s had hours to process it, move past the fear, and get to the point of being able to joke about it. While you've had the same amount of time, you've had to hold it in, stay disciplined, and stoic.
Walking to the rail, you wrap your fingers around it and squeeze until it hurts.
“Babe?”
“Lieutenant Bradshaw.”
He’s at your side immediately. “Lieutenant Bradshaw?” he repeats.
You nod, completely serious. “Do you have any idea how much paperwork I had to do because you decided to audition for Survivor: Naval Edition?”
“I didn’t...”
You poke a finger into his chest. “I’m not done!” Pressing his mouth closed, he stands nearly at attention. “You disappeared. You went quiet. Hangman could see you, and then...” You jab him again. “You said I love you, and then you were gone. I thought...” Your throat closes around the rest because you can’t say it.
You feel the tears well, and take a deep breath to try to find some control.
“You gave me a heart attack.”
“I know.”
Bradley holds out his arms, and you finally surrender, falling into his chest, letting him hold you until the tears stop.
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
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Summary: A joke-filled training session takes an unforeseen turn.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: bit of angst, bit of fluff. W/C: 777 Pairing: Bradley x Reader.
Word of the day (May 19, 2026) - Dusty
Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
The Pilots are in rare form today. As usual, routine training exercises have turned into unofficial competitions, and today is no different.
You’re in the control room, headset on, eyes moving between monitors and the long runway outside the tower window where fighter jets scream into the sky and descend back to earth. It’s easy laughter and endless trash talk from a group of people who trust each other enough to be relentless.
Fanboy set the challenge. Hangman set the record. Phoenix beat it minutes later. It’s somewhat controlled chaos, but of course, you have to play referee.
“Phoenix, you’re cheating.” Rooster jests over comms.
Phoenix cuts in instantly. “How exactly am I cheating, Rooster?”
“I don’t know yet, but give me time.”
You smile, pressing a button on your console, and taunt, “Are you questioning my integrity, Lieutenant Bradshaw?”
“Yeah, Rooster,” Fanboy joins the melee. “Are you questioning your lady’s integrity?”
“Bradshaw,” Hangman drawls, his voice carrying that infuriating grin you can practically hear through the radio. “You being slow doesn’t mean the rest of us are cheating.”
You roll your eyes. Like a shark sensing blood in the water, Hangman is always waiting for opportunities to antagonize Rooster.
“I’m sorry,” Rooster fires back, “didn’t Phoenix just leave your ass in the dust?”
“Okay,” You interrupt before it turns into the predictable back-and-forth bickering. “Let's lock in pilots.”
They descend into kindergarten warfare, but they listen to the instructions they are given. Phoenix beats her own record, and then it all goes south.
“Control to all aircraft. Weather pattern change.” Petty Officer Parker’s voice suddenly cuts through.
What? It was clear seconds ago.
You stand up, looking for the issue. Your stomach drops. On the horizon, closer than it should be, moving with terrifying speed, is a dust cloud that temporarily blots out the sun.
One by one, the pilots report in, Phoenix and Bob, Fanboy and Paycheck are directed to return and land. Hangman reports he’s behind the cloud, following it in.
Shit.
“Control,” Hangman says. “You have approximately three minutes before you’ll be blind.”
“Rooster.” You whisper-shout into your mic. He’s the only one who has not checked in. “Rooster.”
Nothing. In the stillness, it feels as if everyone is collectively holding their breath.
Inhaling sharply, you shake your hands out to dispel some of the anxiety as you watch Phoenix land. “Does anyone have a visual on Lieutenant Bradshaw?”
“I got him," Hangman calmly relays. "I can see his tail. He's …” The pause feels like a lifetime in a situation where seconds count. “It's gone.” This time, there's a bit of reticence in his tone.
A lump clogs your throat. It’s not your job to keep an eye on the weather, but it’s something you find yourself doing regardless, because Rooster's a pilot. Because somewhere along the line, weather patterns, wind shifts, and cloud formations stopped being data on a screen and became something that could take him away from you.
Except today.
Today you’d been distracted, mind up in the clouds with him. This morning, Bradley stood in your kitchen, sunlight spilling over him while he stole your coffee and smiled at you over the rim of your mug. He’d looked at you with soft eyes and sleep-rustled hair and said the three words you didn't expect to hear.
I love you.
The universe feels cruel enough to make it the first and last time.
NO!
Slamming your finger onto the microphone button, you try again. “Control to Lieutenant Bradshaw. Report.”
The sand-filled gust hits the tower, and the sunlight vanishes. Glass rattles as dusty debris scrapes against the windows.
It’s over as quickly as it started, and as he said, Hangman has followed it in. From your position, it looks as if the nose of his jet is nudging it forward. It wouldn’t surprise you, he likes to flirt with danger.
Silence fills the room as the storm moves beyond the field. Seconds tick by—a minute passes. When your legs refuse to hold upright, you collapse into your chair.
Then comes a triumphant, “Woohoo.”
He made it!
His laugh, loud and breathless, has everyone cheering. Still, beneath it, you hear the tiny tremor in his voice. “Holy shit, that was close.”
There's still no visible sign of him, though. “Rooster. Location.” You need to see him to believe your brain isn’t playing tricks.
“I’m righhhhhhhhht here!” he shouts, a split second before buzzing the tower.
A deafening roar, and everyone ducks as the building shakes. Someone yells, someone else curses. Laughter erupts.
Opening the comms, you smile as Rooster's jet circles back to land. “Phoenix, he just beat your record.”
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
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Icy cold rain pelts the pavement, stinging where it hits his face. The brown paper bag of groceries is nearly soaked through. He's certain it will crumble to nothing at any moment.
Bucky picks up his pace to nearly a sprint. As he passes the alley beside his building, he's assaulted by the smell of garbage, made worse by dampness.
Just a few steps from the entrance and warmth, the storm worsens, sending a torrent of water and wind down on him. He barely catches the small, pitiful cry that pulls him to a stop.
The tiny mewl happens again, and he abandons all thoughts of quickly escaping the weather and turns back to the alleyway.
Eyes scanning, he focuses his hearing, waiting for a sound to give him direction. Turning at the angry cry, as if it were shouting at the falling sky, Bucky spots the bedraggled white kitten.
“Hey, little guy,” he coos.
Distracted from the pointless war with the weather, the feline presses tighter against the wall, eyeing him suspiciously, before rushing toward him. Bucky squats and scoops her up just as the cat reaches his feet.
“What are you doing out here?” he asks, holding her up to his eye level. “Oh, little lady, I apologize.”
Shuffling the grocery bag, he tucks her under his jacket and hurries into the safety of the building.
Apparently, having been there a while, the kitten smells like a landfill, so Bucky bathes her. The scratches on his arm from her distaste for the process are worth it to see the fluffy white furball she becomes.
After setting her on his bed, he finally changes out of his wet clothes. She yowls the entire time. He keeps his voice low as he speaks, trying to calm her, but she persists until he picks her up again.
"I’m not keeping her," he mutters for the hundredth time. Still, he wraps her in a kitchen towel and carries the tiny cat burrito to the living room.
“Okay, that’s better,” Bucky says, dropping to sit on the couch. As he lightly strokes between her ears, the little fluff ball begins to purr. The bath time betrayal apparently forgiven. “Now we’re both dry and warm.”
Her eyes begin to droop as if she’s fighting sleep.
“It’s okay,” he soothes, “You can sleep, you’re safe now.”
Almost immediately, her eyes completely close, as if all she needed was his reassurance.
“Oh crap,” he sighs. “I’m keeping you, aren’t I?”
A knock at the front door startles him, and he freezes, making sure he hasn’t disturbed the tiny creature. But she’s too warm and content to notice.
Gently placing her in the corner, behind a cushion so that she won’t roll off.
A groan escapes as he looks through the peephole and sees Denise Livingston, the president of the HOA, and his downstairs neighbor.
“Miss Livingston,” he says, pulling the door open.
Forgoing a greeting, Denise snaps, “Do you have a cat in there?”
“No,” he answers immediately.
“I heard something screeching.”
“Television.”
“Where did you get those scratches?”
“Uhm, not that it's any of your business, but I was helping a friend with landscaping.”
Eyes narrowed, she tiptoes to look over his shoulder. “The bylaws prohibit pets, Mr. Barnes.”
“I know,” he says.
“Breaking the bylaws is cause for eviction.”
“I know,” he smiles, wide, too wide. “Good night, Miss Livingston.”
He slowly closes the door, giving a little wave.
Leaning against the closed door, he whispers, “Shit.”
Bucky has been smuggling cat supplies into his apartment like contraband for almost a week.
The former assassin who fought aliens and survived Hydra is now being psychologically outmaneuvered by something the size of a sock and Denise Livingston, first of her name, protector of the Bylaws!
Alpine is six pounds of mischief, chaos, and affection.
It’s the first time, in a long time, Bucky has found himself laughing out loud at anything. The fiesty attacks on his shoelaces, the dramatic sideways hop before pouncing, the way she insists on supervising every single thing he does like a tiny, furry chaperone, elicit warm, comforting emotions he thought he'd never feel again.
Until the one time it isn’t funny anymore.
Two minutes. Maximum.
Two minutes while he was in the bathroom, and now she’s gone.
Silence. No purring, no patter of tiny feet. No suspicious rustling. No tiny white butt sticking out from beneath furniture before she launches herself at his ankles.
The kitchen is empty. He checks the fridge, just in case, because panic apparently destroys his critical thinking. Under his bed. The closet. In his boots by the front door.
She’s gone.
“Okay, Alpine,” he tries for stern but lands somewhere closer to desperate. “Not funny.”
He throws the cushions off the sofa, more frantic with each one.
“Alpine.”
The only answer he gets is a quick succession of three knocks on his door. It almost sounds conspiratorial.
Bucky freezes.
Denise.
Fuck. Denise finally found the cat, and now he’s going to be evicted because of a wet-nosed Houdini.
He opens the door cautiously, already preparing a lie, only to find you standing there in sweatpants and an oversized hoodie.
“Hey,” he says warily.
You reach into the front pocket of your hoodie and pull out Alpine like a magician revealing the world's fluffiest rabbit. “I think this belongs to you,” you whisper.
Relief floods through him a second before the panic replaces it. “I can explain.”
“It’s a cat, not a body,” you chuckle.
Alpine chirps happily at the sound of his voice and immediately stretches toward him.
“She came through the vents, heard her cry because she couldn’t get out my side.”
“Right, yeah, sorry.” He takes Alpine carefully, like she’s made of glass. “She’s apparently committed to ruining my life.”
You grin. “If all the laughter I’ve been hearing is you, I don’t believe that for a second.” You reach out and scratch under the cat's chin.
You hear it at the same time, the ping of the elevator arriving. You exchange the same look of immediate horror.
Bucky shoves Alpine toward you on instinct. You shove the cat back. Alpine mewls.
“Help me hide her,” he panics.
“In my hood, quick.”
You spin around, and Bucky carefully settles Alpine against the back of your neck, pulling your hood up over your head, as he tucks in her tail.
“What if she moves?” he whispers.
“She won’t, she’s already snuggled up.”
“She likes you.”
Denise turns the corner, and without thinking, Bucky grabs your wrist and pulls you into his apartment, positioning himself between you and the doorway as Denise marches over.
“I heard it again,” Denise complains.
Neither of you responds.
Denise elaborates. “I heard crying through the vents.”
“Sorry,” you say quickly. “That was me.”
Denise squints. “You were crying through the vents?”
“We were playing a game,” Bucky adds.
Denise’s eyes narrow further, features full of disbelief. So you fully commit. “A sex game.”
Denise goes scarlet.
Bucky cough-laughs into his fist so hard his whole body shakes.
You smile brightly. “Very immersive.”
Denise looks moments away from passing out. “Well,” she splutters, clutching her necklace. “Keep it down.”
“Let me guess,” you mock, “there are Bylaws about that?”
She nods once, “Indeed,” before turning and speed-walking back toward the elevators.
Bucky slowly closes the door. The second the latch clicks, you both burst out laughing.
Alpine pokes her tiny head out of your hood at the commotion.
Bucky points accusingly at her. “You are a menace.”
The kitten blinks at him innocently.
“Okay,” you say, reaching up and stroking the kitten. “We need to find a way around this stupid bylaw.”
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