Multi-fandom Fangirl

“You look disappointed.”

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

“For any particular reason?” you tease.

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

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

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

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

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

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

“And the car?”

“Yours.”

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

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

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

“What’s the catch?”

“None.”

“For now,” he adds for you.

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

His brow lifts. “A house?”

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

“The other person?"

"Someone I trust with my life."

Brows pulled together, he asks, "Luxury?"

"Crime empire."

“Crime empire," he repeats with a chuckle.

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

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

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

“That sounds ominous.”

“It was supposed to.”

“You practice these lines?”

“Comes standard with the crime boss starter kit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Unadvisable."

"Will you visit?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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“You look disappointed.”

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

“For any particular reason?” you tease.

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

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

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

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

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

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

“And the car?”

“Yours.”

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

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

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

“What’s the catch?”

“None.”

“For now,” he adds for you.

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

His brow lifts. “A house?”

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

“The other person?"

"Someone I trust with my life."

Brows pulled together, he asks, "Luxury?"

"Crime empire."

“Crime empire," he repeats with a chuckle.

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

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

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

“That sounds ominous.”

“It was supposed to.”

“You practice these lines?”

“Comes standard with the crime boss starter kit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Unadvisable."

"Will you visit?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

@dempy / @kmc1989 / @figurantedefilme / @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes

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

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

“Traffic.”

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

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

“You’re staring,” you say.

“I’m observing.”

“That’s a polite way to put it.”

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

You softly laugh, “There it is.”

“What?”

“The judgment of my character …my reputation.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Expecting poison?”

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

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

"Steve."

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

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

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

“What stories?”

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

“About your intelligence.”

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

“Your ruthlessness.”

“Depends on the circumstance.”

“Your beauty.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Good thing you’re not your father.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You seem like you can handle the challenge.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

@dempy / @kmc1989 / @figurantedefilme / @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes

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

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

“Traffic.”

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

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

“You’re staring,” you say.

“I’m observing.”

“That’s a polite way to put it.”

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

You softly laugh, “There it is.”

“What?”

“The judgment of my character …my reputation.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Expecting poison?”

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

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

"Steve."

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

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

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

“What stories?”

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

“About your intelligence.”

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

“Your ruthlessness.”

“Depends on the circumstance.”

“Your beauty.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Good thing you’re not your father.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You seem like you can handle the challenge.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

@dempy / @kmc1989 / @figurantedefilme / @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes

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

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

“Traffic.”

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

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

“You’re staring,” you say.

“I’m observing.”

“That’s a polite way to put it.”

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

You softly laugh, “There it is.”

“What?”

“The judgment of my character …my reputation.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Expecting poison?”

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

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

"Steve."

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

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

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

“What stories?”

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

“About your intelligence.”

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

“Your ruthlessness.”

“Depends on the circumstance.”

“Your beauty.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Good thing you’re not your father.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You seem like you can handle the challenge.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

@dempy / @kmc1989 / @figurantedefilme / @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes

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

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

“Traffic.”

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

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

“You’re staring,” you say.

“I’m observing.”

“That’s a polite way to put it.”

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

You softly laugh, “There it is.”

“What?”

“The judgment of my character …my reputation.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Expecting poison?”

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

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

"Steve."

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

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

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

“What stories?”

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

“About your intelligence.”

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

“Your ruthlessness.”

“Depends on the circumstance.”

“Your beauty.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Good thing you’re not your father.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You seem like you can handle the challenge.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

@dempy / @kmc1989 / @figurantedefilme / @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes

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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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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.

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

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

“I read the labels.”

“You read one label.”

“I read enough.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You need more sunlight.”

The comment drifts through your open balcony door one morning.

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

“No.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I was just talking to myself.”

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

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

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

“Bucky?”

Silence.

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

“Oh no.”

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

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

“What happened?”

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

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

“She panicked.”

“Reasonable.”

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

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

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

Your shoulders shake.

“I may have screamed.”

You double over.

“She’s a criminal.”

“No jury in the world would convict her.”

“I’m wearing the evidence.”

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

Alpine, clearly having understood, leaps from the pot and scurries into the apartment, trailing a new line of dirt.

“I want it stated for the record that she’s doing this on purpose.”

From somewhere inside, a crash sounds.

“I’ll take clean-up duty. You get bath duty.”

He stands, and dirt falls from his clothing like raindrops, pattering on the metal flooring.

With a resigned expression, he dramatically huffs, “Take care of my plants when I’m gone.”

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

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

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

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

@dempy / @kmc1989 / @figurantedefilme / @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes

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

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

“I read the labels.”

“You read one label.”

“I read enough.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You need more sunlight.”

The comment drifts through your open balcony door one morning.

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

“No.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I was just talking to myself.”

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

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

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

“Bucky?”

Silence.

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

“Oh no.”

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

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

“What happened?”

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

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

“She panicked.”

“Reasonable.”

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

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

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

Your shoulders shake.

“I may have screamed.”

You double over.

“She’s a criminal.”

“No jury in the world would convict her.”

“I’m wearing the evidence.”

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

Alpine, clearly having understood, leaps from the pot and scurries into the apartment, trailing a new line of dirt.

“I want it stated for the record that she’s doing this on purpose.”

From somewhere inside, a crash sounds.

“I’ll take clean-up duty. You get bath duty.”

He stands, and dirt falls from his clothing like raindrops, pattering on the metal flooring.

With a resigned expression, he dramatically huffs, “Take care of my plants when I’m gone.”

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

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

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

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

@dempy / @kmc1989 / @figurantedefilme / @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes

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

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

“I read the labels.”

“You read one label.”

“I read enough.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You need more sunlight.”

The comment drifts through your open balcony door one morning.

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

“No.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I was just talking to myself.”

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

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

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

“Bucky?”

Silence.

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

“Oh no.”

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

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

“What happened?”

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

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

“She panicked.”

“Reasonable.”

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

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

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

Your shoulders shake.

“I may have screamed.”

You double over.

“She’s a criminal.”

“No jury in the world would convict her.”

“I’m wearing the evidence.”

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

Alpine, clearly having understood, leaps from the pot and scurries into the apartment, trailing a new line of dirt.

“I want it stated for the record that she’s doing this on purpose.”

From somewhere inside, a crash sounds.

“I’ll take clean-up duty. You get bath duty.”

He stands, and dirt falls from his clothing like raindrops, pattering on the metal flooring.

With a resigned expression, he dramatically huffs, “Take care of my plants when I’m gone.”

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

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

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

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

@dempy / @kmc1989 / @figurantedefilme / @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes