#at least when you start getting into semantics

[jewghead]

the thing about me is if i get too comfy ill startvfucking with your pronouns cause my brain is convinced that if im relaxed then words don’t have meanings and such. i think grammar was a bigger struggle than i wanted to admit growing up

[kiplex]

You hated parties. They were loud, overstimulating, and there were too many strangers. So when Gideon invited you and Caleb to a party he was having you were hesitant to say the least. You thought having your boyfriend there, your emotional support Caleb, you would be fine; especially once you had a little bit of alcohol in your system. But alas, the universe has a different plan for tonight.

You're three cups of something deep, probably some vodka and a splash of juice, and glued to the side of the wall which were vibrating with how loud the music was, the hum of people yelling over the music certainly wasn't helping. Caleb was god knows where, the second you guys got to the party Gideon whisked him away to go take shots with him and some of the guys they went to college with. Your finger drums a consistent beat against your red plastic cup, your eyes scan the room for any sign of him. Sure, you could go and talk to people, mingle a bit but… Something in your stomach lurches at the thought of doing that.

You take another small sip. You pull out your phone check to the time. “You're Colonel Xia's girlfriend right?" Someone shouts to your left. He looked about the same age as Caleb. “Ah! Yeah! Yeah I am." Your voice wobbles, slightly startled. “Man, he is one lucky guy. I was assigned to his fleet shortly after he took over." The man extends his hand offering his name, that you definitely don't catch. Instead you politely smile, shaking his hand and yelling your name back over the music.

He starts going on and on about fleet stuff, with the amount of liquor in your body you really can't make heads or tails of it, you just politely nod. He wasn't a bad guy or anything, you just clearly were uncomfortable and didn't want to be there. When you feel a hand wrap around your waist, you nearly jump ten feet in the air. “Woah woah! Pips, it's me." Caleb's voice is soft in your ear. Your whole body immediately relaxes into his touch. “Oh Colonel! Good to see you off duty." The man you're talking to acknowledges his superior. “Good to see you too, if you don't mind I'm gonna steal her away for a bit." Caleb smiles at the man. You are always in awe of how charming and charismatic Caleb is naturally. He makes it look effortless.

The man nods, and Caleb grabs your wrist taking you to a free spot farther down the wall. His body blocks your view of the crowd, his cologne flooding your senses calming your nervous system down exponentially. " You okay pretty girl?” He asks, his hands cupping your cheeks intentionally making you maintain eye contact with him. Regardless you down cast your eyes. " I'm fine.” You answer, not wanting to ruin this night for him.

He rarely gets time off, let alone gets to spend it with his friends. His eyebrows furrow. " No you aren't.” He sighs, pulling you against his chest before wrapping his arms around you. " Pips, I've known you, your whole life. I know when you're lying to me.” He kisses the top of your head. " Let me ask you again. Are you okay?” He repeats gently. You shake your head no into his chest. "Not really, it's loud and I'm a little tipsy and… I'm sorry Caleb." Your eyes gloss over slightly, tears threatening to spill over.

He pulls you back a bit so he can look at you. “Aw you sweet girl, don't apologize. You've never really been big on this stuff. I'm proud of you for even tagging along with me. Even Gideon was singing praises about you being here tonight… I mean I did shove him for talking about my girlfriend like that, but semantics.” You giggle slightly.

Caleb kisses your forehead. " Do you wanna get the hell out of here?" He asks, grinning at you. “Are you sure? I know you don't get to do this often…" You mumble. He smiles, shaking his head. “I already got to hang out with Gideon for a while, besides my girlfriend is clearly overstimulated and trying to be brave for me. That's my job Pips, how dare you steal my thunder." He squeezes you slightly. You lean up kissing him gently. “Let's go home." He grabs your hand again, leading you through the sea of people out the door. “Oh also, if I see you talking to another man at a party again I won't be so kind next time, I can promise you that. " You roll your eyes, a dumb smile on your face. If you're being honest, you wouldn't have it any other way.

You can find my master list here

[comatosebunny09]

merry christmas, mr. sylus

— summary: the one where you nearly tear your hair out, trying to find the perfect christmas gift for your office crush. — cw: fluff, romance, jealousy, feelings of inadequacy, reader is not mc, ceo au, modern au, aged-up characters, mutual pining — notes: part 2 here — now playing: merry christmas mr. lawrence - utada

What do you get a man who has everything? Who can buy anything at the drop of a hat? 

Nothing. The answer is nothing. And the realization, as it slowly descends onto your shoulders, is really starting to piss you off.

You blow some hair from your face for the umpteenth time since you’ve started this little adventure. Throw yourself against the bench in the midst of the mall’s second floor, peering up at the ceiling as if it can solve all your problems.

Your wares, bags of varying colors, sizes, and materials, sit off to the side. It’s an impressive haul—gifts for coworkers, family, and friends. But nothing buried beneath the sparkly tissue paper of said bags is for him. 

At least, not yet.

You lean back in a defeated slouch, arms crossed over your chest. Puffing your cheeks out, you exhale all slow and dramatic, watching the lights adorning the Christmas tree in the mall’s epicenter twinkle like bokeh. Your lips twist into a pout. 

Mr. Sylus isn’t particularly picky, at least from what you’ve gleaned from working as his secretary the past year. You know how he likes his coffee: black. How he prefers your morning briefs: quick and concise. How he often falls asleep in his office, propped on an elbow on his desk, the usual furrow between his brows traded for something more serene as sunlight bleeds in, framing him like a halo–your cheeks warm at the memory. 

You bow forward with a sigh, your head held in your hands.

You know enough about your boss to appease him. To level with him. You just wished you knew him a little…better. Enough to make this gift-buying venture you’ve been on since 8 AM worthwhile.

You tried asking Luke and Kieran, his financial and technology advisors, for pointers. They’d worked with him longer than anyone else at Starlight Enterprises. Naturally, they knew him like the backs of their hands. But they spoke in riddles when you asked. Confused the hell out of you, speaking of challenging his authority to get to his heart and things of that nature. 

You didn’t know what the hell any of that meant. And even if you did, it’s not like you were out to steal his heart, though you someday hoped to.

As cordial as Mr. Sylus had been since you began working for him, you always felt like he kept you at arm’s length, even as the months under his tutelage eased by. He steeled himself against you, though your coworkers swore they’d never heard him so talkative. 

Sure, he occasionally greeted you with rare smiles and snickered at your terrible, cringe-inducing jokes. Entertained you with sporadic coffee runs and maybe went out of his way to chat you up before disappearing behind the heavy, oakwood door to his office. But you didn’t expect a man like him to fully open his chest cavity to you, no matter how disarming you were.

You were so desperate for the perfect present that you even perused through his contacts and reached out to someone who’d frequented his office more times than you could count. Ms. Hunter. She had a name, but you’d grown accustomed to addressing her as such, adopting the moniker from your boss.

Sylus always smiled so youthfully when she swung around your desk and walked into his office. Her presence alone seemed to shave 10 years off his life in a way you were envious of. You didn’t know the semantics of their relationship. Could never make out what they were saying, their voices distorted murmurs behind a closed door. As far as you were concerned, they were good friends. Or your delusions had convinced you of such, and you still secretly hoped you stood a chance with him.

But you couldn’t help how your stomach gnarled, and words stalled in your throat when, after each time she left, Mr. Sylus was particularly cheerful. Or as spirited as a man like him could be, his eyes shining with residual fondness as he requested you reschedule his meetings before he shacked up in his office again. 

You shake your head to dispel your thoughts. You’ve sunken into the abyss of self-deprecation again. Now’s not the time to pity yourself. 

The bottom line was that Ms. Hunter wasn’t much help, either; she was cryptic on the phone as she threw out generic options, seemingly disinterested. But you wouldn’t give up despite how unhelpful everyone around you was. Mr. Sylus deserved something—anything to show how grateful you were to have been taken under his wing.

You sit up again, watching as families and couples mill about, swept up by the Christmas spirit. Briefly, you wonder if Mr. Sylus even celebrates Christmas. Your endeavor might've been for naught. He doesn’t strike you as the type to indulge in silly holiday traditions. He’s usually all business and stoned-faced when he isn’t entertaining your morbid jokes or his lady friend. But you’re persistent, having organized a holiday party on Christmas Eve at the office without his consent.

You told him after you already set your plans into motion. And he looked at you from the rim of his monitor with a quirked brow and a smirk canting one corner of his lips skyward. He sat back in an easy slouch, tapping the tips of his fingers together, seemingly mulling over your request.

“Do I even have a say in the matter?” he teased in that humored, attractive rasp. 

You stood before him, determined, a hand on your hip whilst the other clutched a set of Manila folders to your chest. “Not at all.”

Mr. Sylus scoffed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He knew he was fighting a losing battle. 

You could be terribly insistent when you wanted to be. Most of the time, it got you into trouble in your previous professions. However, as you grew more accustomed to your boss, you found he coddled your fighting spirit. 

And with time, you also discovered it easier to manipulate him—at least to a certain degree. Your pout and guilt-tripping when he wouldn’t bend to your will, he could manage. But you barging into his office, insisting he eat, stretch, or simply take a load off? He could not contest that. 

Or he at least chose not to.

He threw his hands up in mock surrender, the amusement never leaving his face. “You drive a hard bargain. I won’t interfere. But don’t expect me to help you orchestrate this little soiree.”

You smiled triumphantly, peering down at your boss from the tip of your nose. “I don’t. I just expect you to be there with your cutest Christmas sweater, smiling and ready to party.”

He gave you a look. One that read, ‘I don’t do cute.’ And you stifled a laugh, imagining your stoic and trendy boss donning something other than a suit. He must’ve caught wind of what was going on in your head, lifting a brow at your mischievous cackle. 

He waved his hand dismissively. Cheek dimpled whilst he busied himself with some financial reports on his desk. You spun on your heel, skipping out of his office with all the eagerness of a child, set to finish your work for the evening. 

The earlier you finished, the more time you had for gift shopping and preparing for your holiday shindig.

Funnily enough, though your boss insisted he wouldn’t entertain your holiday antics, extra funds mysteriously appeared on the company card. 

Two days later, you find yourself a huffy, downtrodden mess, stewing in your inadequacy. 

You’ve scoured the city for the perfect gift over the past few days. Woke up early to travel out of town even, hoping to find something. Anything to make your boss all misty-eyed and appreciative. You’ve come up short; nothing seems to fit his vibe.

You’ve looked at watches, ties, cologne, and luxurious sweaters. Checked stores with prices that made your paycheck shudder. Nothing seems to resonate with him. To capture the essence of Mr. Sylus.

A glance at your smartwatch reveals it’s mid-afternoon. You deflate. Here you are, cities away from the investment firm, and you’ve nothing to show for your efforts. 

It’s Christmas Eve. Your day off. You should be using it to prepare for the party, but your coworkers assured you they’d handle the decorations while you ran your errands.

Still, you’re at least an hour away from your home. Traffic is a hellscape around this time of year. You need to get back quickly to wrap presents and gather yourself for the festivities. 

Resigned, you peel yourself from the bench, your bags weighted in either of your hands. You trudge across the mall’s upper level in search of the escalator. Maybe Mr. Sylus will forgive you for not having gotten him a gift. Anything you could think of getting, he could buy himself. He’s the CEO of the most notable investment company in the city. Surely, he wouldn’t bat an eye if you showed up to the party empty-handed.

Your head slung low, you’re about to descend on the escalator. However, something catches your attention in your periphery. You curiously meander towards a display window adorned with gaudy Alternative Christmas decorations. Something inside captures your interest, and a smile slowly crawls onto your lips. 

With a renewed tide of optimism washing over you, you wander into the store. 

Maybe fate is on your side today.

—

Your holiday soirée is fairly low-key. 

It’s littered with modest decorations. Christmas garlands adorn the walls and columns of the tenth floor, dripping from the ceiling. String lights twinkle overhead, tables donned with red and green tablecloths and poinsettia centerpieces.

The six-foot tall Christmas tree is the focal point, frocked with artificial snow and sparkling ethereally amid the dark grey walls of your office space. Sure, you had to strain on tippy-toe to put the star up. And maybe you still had a bit of the faux powder in your hair. But, with a glass of bubbly poised at your lips, you inwardly pat yourself on the back. You truly outdid yourself, breathing life into these otherwise drab walls.

A few of your coworkers along with some of the other department heads are in attendance, trading work talk and gossip. Even Ms. Hunter carved out some time—at your insistence—to come.

Over your time as his secretary, you’ve gathered that Mr. Sylus is a bit of an introvert. You didn’t want to overwhelm him with a crowd. He gets enough attention as it is, being amongst the country's youngest, most successful business moguls. He’s always under scrutiny, much to your dismay. He deserves to take a load off from time to time, which is why you were so adamant about throwing this party in the first place.

Speaking of the devil, you haven’t taken your eyes off him since he made his grand entrance. Always had him in sight, sneaking little glimpses of his figure as it cut a sharp, regal outline amid the humble decor. 

He looks amazing. Then again, when hasn’t he? With his striking white hair and uncommon, scarlet eyes, he sifts through his guests as he entertains them with fruitless chatter. 

Though he didn’t entirely humor you with an ugly Christmas getup, he still wore something festive. A burgundy sweater that doesn’t betray his usual style. Complimented it with a black button-up beneath, matching slacks, and onyx loafers. Still so inherently Mr. Sylus. 

He routinely captures your gaze. Raises his champagne glass to you in greeting, a small, dimpled smirk lighting up his features. You hide your bashfulness behind your glass, turning away to chat up your coworkers beneath the ambient crooning of the jazz music spilling from the speakers. 

The night eases by with a bit of champagne. With hors d'oeuvres, karaoke, silly party games, and raucous laughter coloring the atmosphere. Everyone appears to be in good spirits, a few of the party’s attendees stopping by to let you know what a great job you’ve done putting everything together.

You brush them off with a lopsided smile, the bubbly fizzling in your system. You gnaw on your bottom lip once left to your own devices. You grapple with the idea of giving your present to your boss now. It’s a quarter ‘till 10 PM, and you’re sure you won’t have a more opportune time to present it to him. 

You spot your boss amid the partygoers, the world around him blurring and bending as you focus solely on him. He talks with his Chief Technology Officer, a hand stuffed in his pocket. His posture is relaxed, an occasional, rich laugh spilling from his throat. You decide you quite like this side of him. His defenses at half-mast, swept up in the holiday cheer. 

Your face warms. You’re not sure if it’s from the alcohol or the magnetic pull you feel towards him. With a bit of liquid encouragement, you swallow your resolve and swipe your gift from beneath the Christmas tree, making a beeline towards the man of the hour after his conversation ends. 

But fate has other plans for you tonight, no longer working in your favor.

You’re halfway across the room when she walks into frame—Ms. Hunter. The smile you once held dampens, and you clutch your gift to your chest, stock-still. You watch with bated breath as she produces a thin, rectangular box from behind her and presents it to your boss, the glossy wrapping paper catching in the incandescent light. 

He accepts it with a rare smile. Sets his champagne flute on a high-top table and carefully unravels the gift. Once the box’s contents are revealed, your throat grows dry, your eyes prickling with something warm. 

It’s a crudely knit, crimson scarf. It looks like it itches and is two sizes too big for just one person. But it’s clearly a labor of love, and Mr. Sylus bends to allow his lady friend to drape it around his neck. He exudes a quiet fondness as she grazes the tip of his nose with one of the scarf’s frayed ends. It’s simple, yet it speaks volumes of the affection blooming between them. 

Without having spoken a word, you sense whatever relationship they share stretches beyond that of mere friendship. It’s something more. Something you could only hope to obtain, but you’re grossly outmatched. All those months you spent in denial, rose-tinted glasses perched on your nose. You never stood a chance, and the realization slams into you with the force of a tsunami.

With a bitter chuckle, you peer down at the intricately wrapped gift in your hands. You’d taped and retaped it several times, determined to get the lines and creasing just right. Took your time curling the ribbons with scissors and scrawling his name on the To line. You protected your gift with your life on your way to the party. Cradled it like a baby. But now, the sight of it makes your stomach churn, the taste of bile heavy on the back of your tongue. 

Feeling incredibly foolish, you hide your present at the small of your back, quietly stepping away to nurse your wounded pride.

[inkdrinkerworld]

i know u were asking for soft dom remus: reader cuts her finger after messing around with a knife or scissors after remus told her to be careful!

sorry this was such a delayed response, still I hope you enjoy <33

"Ouch, fuck." Remus looks up from his laptop immediately, finding you cradling your finger with a few tears streaming down your face.

"What's a'matter, dove?" he asks, already pushing out of his seat and coming over to the kitchen to see what's going on.

Your teary eyes flit up to him, nibbling on your bottom lip as you decide whether or not you should tell Remus.

In the end you don't have to, because your boyfriend spies the cantaloupe and the poorly cut rind on the floor and the blood on the knife.

"Cut my finger." you say with resignation, putting your hand in Remus' with a sniffle.

"My love," he murmurs, kissing your finger and then opening the tap. "C'mon, let's get rid of all this blood, hm."

You let Remus guide you closer to the sink, hissing as the water touches your skin and Remus tuts.

"You're okay baby, you're okay." Remus pulls the first aid kit from under the sink and holds two bandages up to you. "What d'you think, dove? Plain or cartoon?"

Remus is humouring you. You both know which bandage you're going to choose, but he likes giving you the choice regardless.

"Cartoons." he kisses your forehead as he rips the paper off it. "M'sorry I tried doing it myself and got hurt."

Remus rolls his eyes, "Dove you can do things yourself, I'm never stopping you from that," He wraps the band-aid around your finger, and presses a kiss to it. "But," Remus tips your chin up. "You know the melons are always tricky for you. I don't like when you get hurt, but I'm not upset with you."

You nod, tears pooling in your eyes again that has Remus tucking your face into his chest and rubbing down the length of your back. "I just really want to be able to do it myself. The rough skin never makes you cut yourself."

Remus chuckles, lips pressed into your hair as your tears slow down. "I can show you baby," he promises and you perk up, pulling away from him quickly.

The unshed tears hang on your waterline like diamonds glittering in the sun. Remus thinks even tear stained you look like an angel. "Right now?"

He smiles, "When haven't you gotten your way with me?"

You smile wide and bright like midday sun and Remus' heart warms under it. "Well, if you must know, when you banned me from having coffee past three in the afternoon."

Remus only shakes his head, hands on his hips as he props you up on the counter top and washes the bloody knife and cutting board. "I'm pretty sure you still get caffeine even after then."

"That's just semantics. It's not coffee though is it?" You rebut as Remus starts carving away at the rough skin of the melon with an ease you've yet to master.

"Brat," he mutters and your answering whine is too adorable for his smile not to break through. "Let's add another thing to that list, no cutting melons for at least two weeks."

You sigh like it's a travesty, but honestly, you're taking a break from learning how to do it. "If you insist."

Remus knows you too well, still he plays along. His voice alight with amusement, "I insist on keeping you alive until well after we get married baby, so no knives for the foreseeable future."

He feeds you a cube of melon before you can say much else.

[dee-writes-anime]

Labor with Satoru Gojo

FEATURING Satoru Gojo x Reader

SUMMARY You weren’t sure what you expected labor to be like, but one thing was certain—Gojo was going to be an absolute drama queen. And, unsurprisingly, you were absolutely right.

CONTENT WARNINGS fluff, crack, Gojo being Gojo

AUTHORS NOTE I thought about making this a more serious, maybe even angsty fic, but then I thought: "I don't often have the opportunity to write for Gojo a lot." Which then led to this monstrosity, hope you like it ;)

SERIES MASTERLIST

The world was ending.

Or at least, that’s what Satoru Gojo was convinced of as he careened through the hospital hallways, wailing like a banshee as if he were the one whose body was actively trying to rip itself in half.

“She’s dying! My wife is dying!”

The nurses barely spared him a glance, unfazed by his dramatics as they guided the actual patient—his heavily pregnant, very much in labor wife—into the delivery room.

You, between gritted teeth and with the kind of calm reserved only for people at the edge of their patience, hissed, “I am not your wife, Gojo.”

“Semantics!” he wailed, tossing his sunglasses somewhere into the abyss, raking his hands through his already disheveled hair. “You’re the mother of my child, my future, my life—oh god, we’re going to be parents. Do you know what that means?”

Another contraction slammed into you like a truck, and your response came in the form of an agonized scream.

Gojo, rather than reacting like a normal, supportive partner, let out his own bloodcurdling shriek in response, gripping onto the nearest nurse like a lifeline. “IT’S HAPPENING! OH MY GOD, GET HER THE DRUGS! GET ME THE DRUGS! I CAN’T HANDLE THIS—”

A hand—your hand, fueled by the strength of a thousand ancestors—snatched him by the collar and yanked him down to your level, your noses nearly touching.

“Satoru,” you said, voice eerily steady despite the hurricane of pain. “Shut. Up.”

He gulped audibly, nodding furiously.

The doctor, who had clearly drawn the short straw and was now responsible for delivering Gojo Satoru’s firstborn, sighed and patted your shoulder sympathetically. “Alright, let’s get started.”

Gojo perked up immediately, regaining his usual swagger as he dramatically rolled up the nonexistent sleeves of his Jujutsu Tech hoodie. “Alright, team, let’s do this. I’ve seen Grey’s Anatomy. I can totally—”

“OUT.”

You pointed a trembling yet resolute finger toward the door, and a nurse, a saint among mortals, immediately grabbed Gojo by the arm to usher him out. He flailed in protest.

“No, no, I’m sorry, I’ll behave, I swear!” he pleaded. “Please don’t make me leave, what if I miss something? What if they switch my baby? What if they give me the wrong one and I don’t notice until they’re like, fifteen and suspiciously bad at Infinity—”

A collective groan echoed through the room.

The doctor, sensing the only way to avoid further delays was to placate the nuisance, sighed. “Fine. You can stay. But if you cause any more trouble, you’re out.”

Gojo brightened immediately, plopping down beside you and gripping your hand. “Don’t worry, baby, I’m your rock. Your anchor. Your—”

Another contraction, another bone-crushing squeeze.

Gojo screamed louder than you did.

Hours later, when your cries had quieted, and the room settled into an exhausted peace, a tiny, wailing bundle was placed in your arms. Tears welled in your eyes as you gazed at your newborn, every ache and agony fading into insignificance in the face of the tiny life you had brought into the world.

Gojo, standing beside you, peered over your shoulder, his infinity dropped, his cerulean eyes wide with something raw and unguarded.

“She’s so…” he trailed off, lips parting slightly. “Wow.”

For once, he was speechless.

A smile curved your lips as you nudged him. “Satoru?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you like to hold your daughter?”

He blinked rapidly, nodding so fast you feared he might get whiplash. Carefully, as if she were made of the most delicate glass, he took her into his arms, his usual arrogance replaced by pure, unfiltered awe.

“Hi, little one,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over her impossibly tiny fingers as they curled around him. A choked breath left him. “I’m your dad.”

The world was ending.

Or at least, the world as he knew it was. Because suddenly, nothing—not Jujutsu High, not the higher-ups, not even his own untouchable power—mattered more than the fragile, perfect little being in his arms.

You watched him, exhaustion tugging at your limbs but warmth filling your heart. “She’s got your hair.”

Gojo grinned, eyes still locked on her. “Poor kid.”

You laughed softly. “She’s doomed.”

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “Thank you.”

And for once, there was no exaggeration, no over-the-top theatrics—just Gojo Satoru, the man who loved you, the man who loved your daughter, the man who, despite everything, was wholly and irreversibly yours.

“…Okay, but seriously, I almost passed out like four times—”

“Satoru.”

“Right, right. Shutting up.”

“Five times, actually,” the nurse muttered.

Gojo gasped, clutching his chest. “Betrayal.”

TAGLIST

@makingtimemine @strawbrrycat @soraya-daydreams @shokosbunny @saltypuffin1040 @danilights2021 @startwithrecords @obeythebutler @sparklykeylime @surielstea

[meichenxi]

The known-ish words of intermediate Chinese, or: What does it mean to know a word?

We all have this intuition, especially in languages like Chinese, that there are words we 'kind of know'. These are the known-ish words. In the case of Chinese, most people would recognise at least three axes:

1) Do I know the meaning? 2) Do I know the pronunciation? 3) Do I know how to handwrite it?

You might answer yes to some, but no to others. Voila! You know the word - ish.

And then you can also add the dimension of passive and active knowledge:

1) Do I recognise this word passively? 2) Can I use this word actively?

Great. Even more ways of kind of but not really knowing a word. But that's far from all. There's also the different domains of listening and reading, writing and speaking.

So passively, that looks like:

1) Do I know the meaning when listening? 2) Do I know the meaning when reading? 3) Do I know the pronunciation when reading?

Once we add in the active dimension, it all starts to get a bit more complicated. This is far from an exhaustive list, but consider the follows ways you could define 'knowing' a word:

1) I can read the word out loud (but I don't know what it means, and I can't use it in a sentence) 2) I know what the word means, and I can use it in a sentence (but I can't handwrite it) 3) I can use the word in a spoken sentence (but I don't know how to type it, or which character it uses) 4) I can recognise the word when reading (but don't know how to read it out loud, and can only guess at the meaning) 5) I can use the word in a written sentence (but not a spoken sentence) 6) I can type the word and recognise the word (but I don't know how to handwrite it) 7) …

Okay. What else?

Chinese is a compounding language.

Have you ever had the experience that you can't recognise a character individually, but as soon as you see it in a familiar compound, you know what it means? So:

1) I can recognise the word individually 2) I can recognise the word as part of a compound 3) I can recognise the word as part of an unfamiliar compound

Chinese is also a language with a long and storied tradition of writing in Classical Chinese as a literary language and a lingua franca across the whole of East Asia - even two hundred years ago, people were writing in Literary Chinese. 'Mandarin' as a concept did not exist.

So often the meanings of familiar characters can be quite different in formal language or chengyu in the modern language, which uses more classical / literary structures and grammar.

Take, for example, the character 次. The first layer of meaning in modern Chinese - the most foundational layer - is its meaning as time, like 'I have been to Ghana two times'.

But its second layer of meaning is secondary, or next best, or just next. For example:

1) 次货 - substandard goods 2) 次子 - second son 3) 次年 - next year

And so on. Many common words have this kind of polysemy.

So we can add another dimension:

1) I recognise this word's common meanings 2) I can use this word's common meanings 3) I recognise this word's less common meanings 4) I can use this word's less common meanings

Add in the reading and listening dimensions, and things get even messier. I am familiar enough with this basic secondary meaning of 次 to fairly quickly be able to understand that it means 'next' or 'second' rather than 'time' if I see it in a written unfamiliar compound or chengyu. But I am most definitely not quick enough to do that every single time whilst listening to the news, for example!

And what about pronunciation? Once you know a fair amount of Chinese characters, you can often guess the pronunciation of new or unfamiliar characters. How?

Because of phonetic components.

For example:

请

清

情

Notice how these all have the same component on the right? This tells us that these characters belong to the largest group of Chinese characters, phonetic-semantic characters. That is - some part of the character gives a clue to the meaning, and some part gives a clue to the pronunciation. In this case, we know they are all pronounced some variety of qing.

But it isn't always that easy. Some phonetic components tell you the tone and pronunciation - some tell you the pronunciation, but not the tone (like qing above). Some phonetic components, to go even further, are only really decipherable if you have a particular interest in phonology or historical linguistics, or learn the patterns. Consider:

脸 - lian3 (face)

险 - xian3 (dangerous)

验 - yan4 (test)

剑 - jian4 (sword)

签 - qian1 (to sign)

捡 - jian3 (to pick up)

There are far more. If you look down the whole list on Pleco, they all show a similar pattern of variation. You can see some patterns, but also numerous exceptions - most end in the -ian final, except for those that are yan of various tones. All begin with l, x, y, j, q. Most are pronounced jian3, but that is far from a rule.

All this to say - you can see a character, and know vaguely how it is pronounced. If I know that a character is pronounced qing definitely, 100%, but don't know the tone - does that mean I know the pronunciation? Or would you only say that knowing it 100% means knowing it? And in that case - how can you account for the fact that learning a character when you already know 90% of the pronunciation is significantly easier than not knowing it at all?

Let me add just a few more scenarios. Bear with me!

1) A character has more than one way to be pronounced. For this word, you read it incorrectly (but you usually know it). 2) A character has more than one tone. Some people pronounce it always with one tone, and some alternate between the two pronunciations. You only knew it with one - but you're half right? 3) You make the same mistake that a native speaker would make with tone or pronunciation of a rarer character.

In some way, these are all more knowing than not knowing anything at all.

And none of this is even taking into account different writing systems, traditional and simplified.

Here are some more scenarios:

I recognise the character in traditional (but not simplified)

I can type the character in both, but I can only hand-write in simplified

I know the Taiwanese pronunciation, but not the Chinese

etc

And of course Chinese characters are used across multiple different languages.

So you could conceivably have these kinds of situations:

I know the pronunciation and meaning in Cantonese and Mandarin

I know the pronunciation and meaning in Cantonese, and the meaning in Mandarin

I know the pronunciation and meaning in Mandarin and recognise it in Cantonese, but know it means something different

I know the pronunciation in Mandarin, but don't know what the whole word actually means in Mongolian (Chinese characters used to transliterate Mongolian words)

Plus there's handwriting and calligraphy!

Personally, I can't read a lot of calligraphy and have accepted my happy illiteracy in many styles. All Chinese learners and heritage speakers know the feeling of sitting in a Chinese restaurant or museum and having a well-meaning friend say, 'Oooo, what does that say?' It's depressing! So let's add some more nuances to our known-ish characters:

I can read this character in common fonts

I can read this character in less common fonts

I can read this character when handwritten

I can read this character when handwritten quickly / by a child / by a doctor

I can read this character in grass script / seal script / etc

Then there's the question of naturalness.

I frequently add words to my Anki decks that I would be able to understand, no question, if I were reading or listening - but I probably wouldn't have thought to say it in that way. So:

I recognise this word, and would have said it exactly like this

I recognise this word, but would never have thought to say it like this

I can use this word, but didn't know you could use it in such a metaphorical way

I can use this word in a metaphorical way, but didn't realise it corresponded so closely to English / was so different from English in its meaning

And finally there's the simple question of memory.

I know I've seen this word before, but I can't remember it right now and I want to drown myself pathetically in the vast uncaring sea

I know I used to be able to use this word actively, but now can only use it passively

I can still type it, but have forgotten how to handwrite it

I can still use it in writing, but I wouldn't be able to use it in speaking

I can recognise it in set expressions, but wouldn't remember how to use it on its own

I can remember the simplified character, but not the traditional

…

So how many ways do you know a word?

I often feel embarrassed to post my vocabulary lists, because I feel that people will be surprised that I don't 'know' certain more foundational words. I think they will be confused as to why I have very 'advanced' vocabulary alongside 'simple' vocabulary. I feel a lot of pressure to be 'advanced' because of the amount of followers I have, but there's a lot of more basic characters I still don't fully know in a holistic way.

And the truth is that all of those characters and words are in Anki for different reasons. I might have a vocab list that looks like this:

略

松懈

星光

缕缕

薄雾

博览

I don't know any of these words in exactly the same dimensions as I know the others! Let's look at my reasons for including each in detail.

略 - lve4 - slightly. I have this word here because although I know it well in set expressions like 略有耳闻 'have heard a little about'，略有受损 'has suffered slight losses' etc, I wouldn't remember the pronunciation if I saw it alone or with another verb apart from 有. I would still know the meaning - but I wouldn't remember how to pronounce it. So even though I 'know' this word, it's still there in Anki.

松懈 - song1xie4 - to relax, lax, slacken. This is a rare example of a totally 'new' word - most of my Anki words aren't. I know 松 already well, but have never seen the character 懈 before: I didn't know its meaning, or pronunciation.

星光 - xing1guang1 - starlight. I know both characters, pronunciation and meaning, and I can easily understand this word. I just never would have thought to say it so simply. I want to use it actively, so I put it in Anki.

缕缕 - lv3lv3 - fine and continuous (i.e. rain, drizzle). I know 缕 already on its own as a measure word for sunlight, thin hair, gossamer, mist, smoke, fine threads etc - I often forget its pronunciation, but I know its meaning reliably when reading. But together the compound 缕缕's meaning isn't quite extricable from just knowing 缕, so I put it in here.

薄雾 - bo2wu4 - mist, fog. I know 雾 well, but hadn't come across 薄 before (or wasn't sure if I had or not). This is an example where I knew its pronunciation, because of phonetic components, but I didn't know the meaning of the character.

博览 - bo2lan3 - to read widely. I know this word very well. So why is this in there? Literally just because I remembered the pronunciation and meaning of 博览, and when I was racking my brains trying to see if I knew the 薄 in 薄雾, I thought it might be the same character. I looked it up, and it wasn't. So even though I know the word, the meaning and the pronunciation, I had to put it in - because I didn't remember which character was used for the bo2.

When you acknowledge all of the different ways of knowing a Chinese character, it makes sense that your learning after the beginning level is going to be full predominantly of known-ish words.

Accept this! Form your own relationship to it! For me, a huge part in my motivation to return to learning Chinese after a year-long break was just to accept that I was likely never going to 'fully know' most of the characters and words that I partially know.

But that's okay. Think about your native language.

If your native language is English or you speak it very well, consider a word like monadic. Could you say you knew this word? Fully knew it? Like me (I learnt this word in the context of Linguistics yesterday), you might have an idea that it has something to do with one - mono, monorail, monotropism, monologue, monolithic etc. But would you be able to use it in a sentence? Would you be able to explain it to a child?

Or let's say you're learning two new English words: lithology and dreich. (The latter is a Scots word, not English - you would hear it in Scotland frequently.) Neither word you completely know. Which one is going to take you longer to learn?

It's likely going to be lithology. You can form connections with words like monolith or paleothic or maybe even lithium - even if you couldn't say for sure what the Greek element lith means, you're passingly familiar with other words containing it. You also know -ology, and you know how to pronounce the word. If you learn that it means 'the study of rocks', that is probably quite easy to remember.

Dreich, on the other hand - what is there to tell you a) how to pronounce this, or b) that it means 'dreary' or 'bleak', as in, dreary weather? You can't form any connections with similar words at all, and the [x] sound at the end - like in German or Hebrew - might be unexpected to hear if you don't live in Scotland.

That's what Chinese is like in the beginning. All words are like dreich. But the more you learn, the more words begin to be like monadic or lithology.

Learning ten new words a day like dreich would be very difficult. But if you've seen monadic a few times over the last few months, know vaguely when to use it, know how to pronounce it - it's not so hard to imagine that you could learn ten of those a day.

I find all these known-ish words very overwhelming.

And I also find recognising the potential for overwhelm in the Chinese language - because of its unique properties - very helpful in letting me feel less guilty about my current known-ish words. I do know them - ish.

But when I finally get around to properly learning them, all that ish-ness will make them that much easier to remember!

Now I try not to stress out about these types of words. I recognise that, in many ways, they are inevitable. Unless you're a poet who composes out of thin air, you're not going to ever say a literary word for emerald green as frequently as you'll read it in descriptive passages in novels.

It's natural to know certain words in a spiky profile: to know them very well in some ways, but not at all in other ways.

The more you read, the more pronounced this can become.

So here's what I've learnt, and here's the message of all this big, long, rambling post:

Putting 'easy' words that you feel you should know into Anki isn't regressing. It's adding another dimension of knowledge to your understanding of the word. You shouldn't feel ashamed or frustrated when you find you don't know one aspect of an otherwise 'easy' word. I'm still trying to learn this.

Because -

Having lots of known-ish words is not a unique failing on your part. It's a reflection of Chinese as a language and its unique complexity -

And it's part of what makes it so uniquely beautiful.

Have a nice day, everyone. meichenxi out!

[trippinsorrows]

ltye: unpretty

authors note: well, this got a lil heavier and definitely longer than i intended. though, i hope at least some of you enjoy it. ❤️

warnings: angst, smut, violence, brief scene of csa, and strong theme of mental health

words: 6.5k

song inspo: unpretty by tlc

masterlist

I wish I could tie you up in my shoes.

Make you feel unpretty too.

I was told I was beautiful,

but what does that mean to you?

-----

Solana is having a good day.

A good week, she'd even argue.

A bit surprising, though appreciated.

It's only been a few weeks since she completed residential treatment, and while she was most certainly trepidatious about transitioning to being back home full time, that concern has been unfounded.

It's been wonderful being back with her husband, friends, and sweet puppy. Even with visits, more than a few from her husband especially, while she was gone, it wasn't the same.

The swell of sadness that filled Solana every time she had to say goodbye, the bittersweet kiss Roman would place on her forehead when he had to leave in the wee early hours. It was hard. She wanted to see him, but that parting portion was rough, to say the least.

However, not exactly knowing how things would play out upon her return was something that gnawed at her, created a level of anxiety, though she's beyond grateful it ended up being unnecessary concern.

Being back has been phenomenal, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

Dropping her bag on one of the benches separating the set of lockers, Solana starts to pull out her water bottle and headphones. It's not a training day, but she'd decided to head over to the Warehouse and get a little session in, missing the adrenaline and strong feeling she receives from training and moving her body.

She goes to open the locker to deposit the rest of her items in said space when she hears conversation, laughter and footsteps.

Solana looks over to see two women dressed in similar workout apparel as her own, though their slim but curvy figures seem to fill said outfits out in a way that Solana's doesn't. They just fit better.

And look nicer.

Each with contrasting complexions, one a deep, rich chocolate, the other lighter, caramel in tone, though each equally stunning. They're talking among themselves when the one with a lighter complexion casts Solana a glance. She does a double take, looking Solana over from head to toe.

"You're Roman's new wife, right?"

At over six months of marriage, Solana isn't sure she'd still consider herself his "new wife," but she's also not one to be caught up on semantics, either.

"Yeah," she finally answers. "I'm Solana." She offers a small smile and then almost awkwardly offers her hand for a handshake. Both sets of women just stare at her extended hand with a hint of confusion and disinterest. Solana clears her throat, pulling her hand back, feeling a bit silly.

"That's pretty," the other one says. It feels insincere. The two turn their attention away from Solana to open their own lockers.

Solana pulls out her phone to find a playlist but also just wanting a distraction of sorts. The entire air of the locker room seems to have shifted and not in a good way.

"You're lucky, you know."

Solana looks up from her phone, surprised to see the lighter tone woman leaned back against the lockers.

Solana frowns. "I'm sorry?"

She snorts, shaking her head, looking over at her friend. "Of all the men I've slept with, Roman will always be number one on that list."

Shoulders slumped, small smile now dropped into a frown, Solana has a hard time responding. Doesn't know what to make of what was just said. "What?"

The woman sighs almost dreamily, looking at her friend. "Don't you agree?"

The other woman makes a sound. "You already know it." Solana's blood grows cold. "That man had me speaking in tongues every time."

Every time? Solana suddenly has a hard time staying present for the unexpected turn in conversation.

"Oh, you don't mind us saying that, right?" One of them asks in that same insincere tone from earlier. She then laughs and shrugs. "I mean, everyone knows how Roman was. That he only got married cause he needed an heir."

"How's that going by the way?"

"Chantel." A faux type of scolding voice, followed up with continued fake concern. "Ignore her, though you do seem….not exactly like his type, so I'm cur—"

"What is that supposed to mean?" Solana fully intended for her voice to come out significantly more assertive than it did. She sounds so small.

Another fake look of innocence. "I'm just saying, you're so…quiet and passive…and everyone knows Roman is anything but."

The other woman smirks eyeing Solana once more. "He fucks, and he fucks hard. Likes it rough."

"Kiesha," Chantel scolds, providing the name of the woman with the lighter complexion. "Stop. That's her husband. Of course she knows that already." She tilts her head to the side, twirling a piece of her hair. "Right?"

Solana swallows. The jovial disposition she had is all but depleted, replaced with a concoction of sadness, confusion, anger and a shit ton of insecurity.

"Just how he likes when you caress his balls when sucking him off."

"Kiesha!" Chantel laughs, her friend joining in, the two of them clearly getting off on this. On making Solana feel so small and insignificant. "No, I'm sorry, that's way too much."

It is. It absolutely is.

Overcome with emotion, and not wanting to cry in front of these two cruel women, Solana finds herself gathering her items, rushing out of the locker.

"Wait, don't leave," one of them calls after her, laughing once more when Solana is out of view of them, standing by the door. She goes to rip it open to leave but can't help but listen to their continued conversation.

"Oh my God, I can't believe Roman really settled with someone like her. She's so fucking sensitive. And those scars? Hello? Ever heard of plastic surgery?"

Snickering followed up with, "I know he liked his women thick, but that's not thick. She's just fat. Did you see her stomach?"

"Girl, I thought she was just bloated."

"Baby, I've seen bloated. That ain't it. Sis needs to hit that cardio 7x a week."

"I wonder if she ever feels heavy on top of him."

"You know she does. He probably had to up his workouts just to make sure her big ass don't smother him."

At that, Solana has more than enough, rushing out the locker room without another word.

My outsides look cool

My insides are blue

Every time I think I'm through

It's because of you

------------

Roman has a long, late day, which means he won't make it home until later than usual. Solana is immensely grateful for this one thing that would typically make her a little sad, a little lonely, bored, even.

But, that's not the case.

It's not the case, because having time away from him is necessary. It's necessary, because it gives her much needed time to think.

To overthink.

By the grace of some higher power, she's able to hold it together until she gets home, expertly playing off her premature departure from the Warehouse as the result of not feeling well. An excuse, thankfully, bought by Bautista.

But, the minute she's home, in the privacy of her master bathroom, that's when it all comes out. The tears. Sitting on the floor, back against the locked door, Solana cries into her knees.

She's worked so hard the past few weeks to build herself back up, to sound out the negative voices, to silent her inner demons. And, for the most part, she has. At no point does she ever consider harming herself or does she desire to harm herself, she just has a sudden, strong dislike for herself.

For her body.

And insecurity. So much insecurity. In her appearance. In her sex life.

Solana learned a long time ago about her husband's promiscuity, so that was of no surprise.

It's now the nature of that promiscuity, however, and how it vastly contrasts their sex life, that has her mind racing.

Not to mention the women. So beautiful. Their curves generous but attached to a nice, slim frame. Solana knows her breast and ass are big, but so is everything else about her figure. Slim thick is what she's sure those women would be categorized under.

Nothing about her is or ever has been slim.

It's a thought that brings about another set of tears.

Not only does she not fit the mold and standard for what Roman typically went for, the sex they have isn't even close to what pleases him.

Nothing about their intimacy has ever been rough or hard. He's always been so gentle with her, which is exactly what she needs, but it never crossed her mind as to if it's what he needs.

Has he been satisfying my needs and negating his own?

A terrible, heavy thought that only makes her feel worse.

Solana has only ever wanted to make her husband happy, the same way he's made her happy. She thought she did, or maybe she just wanted to believe it.

Believe that what she was doing was enough, but clearly, it isn't.

Solana tears through the growing lingerie collection she's compiled over the past few months, largely thanks to Naomi and Bayley's encouragement. A part of her wants to reach out to them, to ask for their advice. Even Melina and gang.

But, she doesn't. She can't. It's way too personal and between her and Roman.

Solana has to do this on her own.

Finally, she settles on a one piece from Savage X Fenty. A short skimpy dress with beautiful lacing on the bosom part and material that flows and conceals her stomach area.

It's a sexy yet modest and shows just enough but not too much, because while she knows Roman has already indicated he hadn't noticed her weight gain, she certainly has. And, she's definitely noticed it in her stomach.

So, until she can get some of the weight off, she'll just have to be a bit more mindful with how she dresses.

Dinner is easy to make, Solana opting for a less complex, less time consuming recipe, as she has to have Dulce taken care of, as well as her everything shower and her hair to complete before Roman gets home. And, she does.

She manages it all.

Has the foot hot on the plate and on their dining room table when he walks in the door. It's a bit rushed, Solana can acknowledge that much. Roman is really good with asking about how her day was, giving her the space to share. It's always appreciated but not necessary. Not tonight.

Tonight is about him and pleasing him.

So, when dinner is completed, Solana rushes to put away the leftovers and heads upstairs to get ready. She'd already cleaned the kitchen while waiting for him to get home, which ended up being a great decision.

Allotted her just the right amount of time.

Dulce sleeping peacefully in her bed in another room, Solana, dressed and nervously fiddling with her dress and hair, waits for Roman to finish in the shower.

She listens for the telltale signs. The sound of the water shutting off, the sink running, towels and dirty clothes being tossed into the hamper.

They all point to one thing.

Roman is barely out the door when she untangles her legs and moves to kneel on the bed. "Hey."

His warm brown eyes drink her in, Solana a bit self-conscious, holding in her stomach that can't even be seen through the short, opaque gown. "Hey…" He moves toward her, lifting his gaze from her body to her face. "Are you—"

She doesn't let him finish. Just grabs him by his shoulders once he's close enough and smashes her lips onto his. Assertive. She has to be assertive.

Roman naturally returns the kiss though eventually pulls back, looking down at her. "You alright?"

"Of course," she answers, not even really be paying attention to the question. "Just…just missed you, that's all." Not a lie. She always misses her husband when he's not around.

Solana grabs him by the back of the his head, pressing their lips together once more. Unlike most times, instead of his tongue entering her mouth first, she beats him to the chase.

Solana is grateful when he moves his hands to her waist, moving them so that he's laying on top of her. She's also appreciative of the way he starts to kiss her back with equal fervor and desire.

But, it's when one big hand moves under her dress, clearly eager to pull it off, she stops him.

"I—I wanna keep it on," she explains with a hint of stammering. Solana tries to play it off with an objectively weak excuse. "I've—I've been a bit cold all day."

Roman casts her a doubtful and confused expression. "Cold?"

Solana ignores him, grabbing his face and starting to kiss on his neck.

"Sol—"

Once again, he's ignored as Solana moves her hands to slide off her underwear, tossing them to the side as she switches their positions so she's on top straddling him. She goes back to kissing him, hard, borderline aggressive, body moving against his. A hand trails down his chest, going to grope him through his boxers.

"Baby, slow down," Roman breathes, though the erection in the palm of her hand would indicate he's right where she wants him.

"Why?" She questions, voice filled with innocence. And before he can actually answer, she's informing, "I—I wanna try something different tonight."

"Different?" He's frowning as she peppers kisses against his bearded face. "How?"

She licks her lips, looking him dead in his face. "I—I want you to fuck me from behind." At that, Roman's expression shifts once more to a perfect mixture of surprise and confusion. "Doggy style? That—that's what it's called, right?"

Roman is quiet at first, an unexpected, slightly discouraging response for something she hoped he'd be more excited about.

"Solana…."

She shakes her head, pulling him, once again repositioning them so they're both kneeling on the bed. Her back pressed against his solid front. "Come on," she urges, taking his big hands and bringing them to her breast. "This is what I want."

Right?

She has to ignore that question sitting in the back of her mind and instead focus on bringing one hand to the back of Roman's head, forcing it downward just enough to indicate she wants his mouth on her. Wants his kisses on the column of her neck.

Needs them.

"Please," she whimpers when Roman starts palming her chest, his thumb flickering over her hardened nipples. "Need you…"

Her words do something, Roman tugging on the thin strap of her gown, freeing her big breast from the loose confines, continuing to caress her, as her mouth falls ajar from the delicious sensations.

"Solana," he breathes against her neck, one hand leaving the swell of her breast to tease at the material of her gown, scrunching it in his hands. She places her hand over his, expertly guiding it down to the space between her legs, a preferred placement away from her stomach. "Baby, we can have sex but not—not like that."

At that, she frowns, turning her head to look at him. "Why?" No time given is for an answer, as she's already shaking her head. "It's—it's fine. It's what I want."

Solana attempts to demonstrate her readiness by once again repositioning them.

Or, herself.

Solana moves to her hands and knees, looking back at her husband to see him continuing to look just as lost and torn as he's been since stepping out the bathroom. "Let's do it," she urges. Solana has completely ignored and bypassed the instant shift of her excitement to something heavier. The way that pit in her stomach deepened, as well as the heaviness in her chest. But, it all comes to a sick boiling point when she redirects her attention to the headboard before her and feels Roman's hand near her hips.

It all comes together, trigger a horrifying, devastating flashback.

A rough set of hands holding her own, much smaller and tinier, up against the headboard. The tips of her fingers bloodied from being dug into the walls she attempted to use as anchors while being dragged. A tremendous amount of pain, a pain she's never experienced coursing through her body, and the loud, heavy panting and groaning accompanying another set of hands on her hips. Clammy, sweaty, nubby nails digging into her flash.

"Please!" She screamed and cried, her throat practically raw from the mental and physical exertion. "Somebody please help me!"

"Solana."

It's like a slow transition. The way Solana is pulled back from such a darker, heavier period of her life. The way Roman's hands, gentle and comforting, are placed on her cheeks. His gaze, concerned and worried, focused solely on her. "Baby, you're safe. It's fine."

Two words.

Safe and fine seem to finalize the return, allowing her full recognition to settle. She's no longer on the bed, instead standing to the side of said, her husband directly in front of her.

What?

How did she....

She breaks away from him, eyes clenched shut, hands on either side of her head. "I'm good."

"Solana-"

"Really," she argues, opening her eyes. "I'm—I'm okay." His contrite gaze never leaves her, even as Solana moves back over to him. "I'm fine now."

"Baby…"

Her hands are on his chest, looking back towards the bed. "We can—"

He places his hands on her wrists, gently lowering her hands. "Solana, you're not fine."

"I am," she asserts. Never mind the tears starting to blur and burn her vision. "I—I can do this."

"Sol—"

"I just needed a minute—"

"Solana." Roman's voice is loud, traveling through the room, effectively cutting through her defenses. "Solana, baby, look at me." It takes a good minute, but she eventually does. His eyes soften instantly. "You're not fine."

Profound, truthful words.

She's, in fact, not fine.

"I'm—I'm sorry." It cracks, shattering to the floor despite the best of her efforts. Her voice is low and heavy. "I thought—I thought I could do it." She shakes her head, attempting to look down. "Why—why can't I do it?"

A loaded question with no simple answer. Just layered reasons.

And, he doesn't offer her one. Just continues to hold her as she cries silently into his chest.

They remain like that for a few, good minutes before he finally breaks the silence.

"Solana, I need you to talk to me. I need to know what's going on." Roman is a man always in control, always one with his head above water. But, even she can't deny how concerned he sounds. Scared, almost. "Are you…."

"No," she responds, pulling back, wiping at her eyes. "It's…it's not that."

Suicidal.

He's asking if she's feeling suicidal.

"I promise," she whispers, taking his hand and leading them back to the bed. Solana sits down, legs crossed, only remembering then that she'd discarded her underwear.

Something Roman didn't forget, as he subtly moves the blanket over her lap to cover her bottom half.

Her heart swells for a different reason.

She loves him so much.

"I—" She starts, playing with the material of her dress. "I went to the Warehouse today, and….and I ran into these two women that you….that you used to sleep with."

Solana looks up and hates to see the flash of guilt in his handsome face. He has nothing to feel guilty about.

"What did they say to you?" His eyes read guilt, but his tone is an expertly managed can of anger. He's angry at whatever was said, and it's obvious he knows something was said, which means she can't deny it.

Can't lie to him.

"Just…." She doesn't necessarily want to verbatim relay what was said. Just a general gist. "How you like to have sex. Your…your preferences."

With that uncomfortable disclosure, she doesn't look over at him. Keeps her head down.

And keeps talking.

"I'm not like that, Roman." Her voice cracks, the tears returning once more. "I don't look like them, and I don't—I don't know how to please you like they can." She sniffles, a single tear spilling over. "I thought—I thought I could, but—I can't."

A heartbreaking realization that even after months of hard, difficult work, some shackles of her past remain locked, forever tethering her to that violated little girl she just can't seem to fully set free.

"Solana." He repeats her name for what feels like the hundredth time tonight. Except, she won't make him wait, won't ignore him like she did the previous times. Solana looks up at him, seeing he's moved closer, close enough to touch her. And, he does.

Roman is gentle with how he cups her cheek, his thumb brushing away her tears. "Solana, I love you." There's something about the way he says it that tugs at her heart. Desperate, almost. Like, he's in need of her to know and understand this.

Because, he is.

"All I see is you, all I think about is you," he continues, displaying a level of vulnerability no one outside of the four walls of their bedroom could ever be privy to. "I love you in a manner that scares me sometimes, because it's something that completely consumes me in a way I'm not used to."

It's the perfect sentiment, because it's exactly how she feels about him. Roman consumes much more of her headspace than probably what's healthy, and Gail has hinted as such in a couple of sessions. Has brought up the term "codependent" once or twice regarding her relationship with Roman. It's not something she can really deny either.

Solana knows she can be very needy with him, that she is in fact dependent on him in many, many ways, but the truth is that she's gone so long feeling unloved, unwanted and even touch deprived that it's hard to see what's so wrong with that.

What's so wrong with loving him to the extent that she does.

With wanting him the way that she does.

It feels….it feels like she deserves it.

Like she deserves to have him.

"And as far as those bitches go." His tone switches to something harsher, a sense of hatred swimming in his eyes only to settle just enough to avoid making her feel like she's on the receiving end of any of that vitriol.

"I fucked them. All I ever did was just fuck them." Solana nearly winces at the disgust imbued in the set of words, 'fuck' and 'fucked.' Not even directed toward her, but it's enough to hurt even her feelings from an empathetic standpoint. And then he's back to being that considerate, tender man who gives her life meaning. "I make love to you. Every single time, because I love you. They meant nothing to me. I felt nothing for them." A vow. "I feel everything all at once for you."

Again, shared sentiments. She feels the same way. The exact same way.

Roman's hand moves down to the strap of her dress. He must have adjusted it at some point, or maybe she did. Somewhere in between her trying to be something she isn't and him yearning to remind her she's fine just the way she is. "And as far as looks…" His finger gently trails down her arm. "None of those bitches even come close to you in that department, Sol. In any department." Her eyes begin to flutter shut as he travels his finger down to under the swell of her heavy breast. "You are the single most beautiful woman I've ever fucking seen." Head lolled back, her breathing is slightly staggered as he starts kissing on her neck, transitioning to gently caressing her breast. "Just thinking about you and this perfect ass body you have drives me fucking insane, makes me hard as fuck…"

One hand moves to his muscular bicep. "Roman…." So breathy and whiny almost, Solana feeling a shift in her emotions and an all too familiar sensation between her legs with the way he's touching her right now.

"Let me make love to you," he implores, holding her by her hips, kissing down her chest. "Let me show you how much I love you."

It's the return of that pleading and desperation. His dire need and eagerness to do away with any and all doubt and insecurity on her end.

A request she won't deny him.

Solana grabs his face, their lips centimeters apart, her eyes never leaving his. "Yes."

A single word is all that's needed. The passion and fervor from earlier is fully returned but with a sense of normalcy and them. It's so them the way Roman manages to carefully guide her on her back, big hand both exploring her body and ridding them both of the irritating clothes that separate them.

It's so them in how he, even with his hardened member brushing against her wet, velvety lips, still stops and asks if she's sure. Always gaining her consent.

The way he receives that consent and gradually fills her, both of them clutching onto one another, moaning and moving in sync. The way he pistons in and out of her, the depth and angle bringing tears to her eyes for a new, much better, pleasurable reason.

The way her nails sink into his back, her mouth open and closing on his shoulder as he buries his face in the crook of her neck.

"Perfect," he breathes into her skin, Solana's ankles locking above his ass, tethering him close to her. "You're fucking perfect, sweetheart."

Continued and whispered words and statements of affirmations, his voice praising and worshiping her the same way his body does. Because there's an almost reverence in the way he makes loves to her, like each carnal thrust of himself into her is an imprint of all his love and devotion.

An unending, bottomless supply.

Solana cries out, her back arching off the bed as he switches angles, hitting and reaching that part of her. "Oh my God…"

"Tell me what you need, baby." His hand moves up and down the fat of her hip and the back of her thigh, his mouth returned to hers. "Tell me what to do, and I'll do it." Her eyes temporarily shut from the overwhelming nature of it all. "I'll do anything for you, Solana."

Words she knows. Sentiments and loyalty she already knows. Roman has done nothing but shown her time and time again how far he'll go for her. Even from the day he decided to take her as his wife, he's protected her. Warning Xavier and Wes not to hurt her.

Even before he ever loved her, he protected her. And that protection has only grown and metamorphosed into something so pure and beautiful.

And, that hasn't changed. Even with everything that's happened. With her attempt. With her regression with her mental health. It hasn't changed. He hasn't changed.

Their love hasn't changed.

Solana moves to push his hand away, her eyes opening and never leaving his as she rolls them over, switching positions so she's on top. A small hiss leaves her parted mouth from the transition. He suddenly feels significantly deeper in the best way possible.

She leans forward, hands moving up his chest as she starts to grind against him.

"You," she finally answers. "All I need is you."

It's all she'll ever need.

Roman's hand moves to her ass, squeezing and evoking a sensual, whiny moan. He tugs her down just enough to connect their lips in a passionate kiss, one that feels like the sealing of an oath and promise.

"You have me." His eyes shut, his forehead pressed against hers. "You'll always have me."

But if you can't look inside you

Find out who am I to

Be in the position

Tto make me feel so

Damn unpretty

----------

Locks and Lashes is one of the most popular salons in the city. A full service stop that provides hair styling and various beauty services. It comes only second on the list of best salons in the state, Bayley's company, Role Models, sitting comfortably in the number one spot for the past decade.

Locks and Lashes, often referred to as L&L, is owned by Chantel Davis and Kiesha Ford, two longtime best friends turned business partners. Known for impeccable taste and only offering the highest quality of services, it's only when getting to know the two of them, and when the camera aren't on, that one becomes privy to the fact that their undeniable outward beauty doesn't extent inward.

Vain, conceited, callous, they're the mean girls one believes get left behind in high school only to be found in the workplace.

But, alas, despite hideous personalities, the women have made names for themselves.

Have done quite well. Even preparing to launch and open their third location in less than 5 years.

Quite well indeed.

Salon bustling with a plethora of customers and many more to come, the day has barely started, the clock shy of striking noon when the bell above the door chimes, signifying the arrival of another guest.

Shyla, a pretty young college student working one of her two jobs, a necessary to afford her heft tuition, looks up with a rehearsed smile only for it to drop.

"What?" Confused and slightly nervous, she sees a man, a boulder of human, dressed in all black. He's with two other men, smaller than him but still formidable looking.

Shyla swallows. "H—Hi. Welcome—" She's cut off when the biggest man says something, finger against his ear before he holds the door open, allowing another patron to enter.

A woman, short in stature, dressed in a bodycon gray dress that hugs her generous curves. Her exposed arms reveal several scars, horizontal and thin, similar to slash marks. A gray Birkin bag is on her arm, along with a stack of Van Cleef, Louis Vuitton, Tiffany and Co, along with other designer brand bracelets on both wrists. Not to be outshined by a stunning wedding ring that's practically blinding.

The woman walks forward, lifting her expensive Gucci glasses off her face. Up close, Shyla can make out the faintest hint of another scar over her right eye, though it's well concealed under her beat face.

Shyla hasn't the slightest clue who this woman is, but easily, she's someone the young Marketing major envies.

Greatly.

"Hi," she introduces, her voice sounding exactly how Shyla anticipated given her small stature. "Are Chantel and Kiesha here?"

It's not until the woman gives an expectant look that Shyla realizes she's staring. An embarrassing thing, for sure. Granted, it's pretty hard not to gawk at this woman who is clearly someone important considering her entire outfit has to easily total at about half a million dollars along with the fact that she's flanked by literal bodyguards.

"Uhhh…." Shyla has to blink and shake her head to reorient herself. "I'm sorry, do—do you have a meeting or…." Shyla can't recall either of the owners mentioning any sort of plans for today. Not to mention, most of their business meetings take place elsewhere.

Never the salon.

The woman slides off her glasses and places them in her bag before answering casually. "I'm here to return a favor."

Shyla frowns.

A favor?

Shyla doesn't have time to consider such a strange response, because next thing she knows the fire alarms are going off. She's half expecting the sprinklers to activate right away as well, but no such thing.

"Fire! Everybody out!" The large man shouts as customers begin to panic, flocking out in droves. Everyone except for the woman and the other two guards, one of which, Shyla realizes, is holding a bat.

"What—"

"Go," the woman orders, placing her bag on the counter while looking past Shyla. "This doesn't concern you."

Turning around, Shyla realizes the woman is looking at Kiesha and Chantel who have come out of their offices in the back of the salon.

"What the hell is going on!" Kiesha shouts at the same time the woman moves forward, blocking their trying to leave or, at least, see what's happening.

"Not you two."

Once again, Shyla is prevented from questioning further when the large man approaches her.

He looks at her, voice surprisingly kind. "Get out of here, kid."

Shyla looks between the stranger, her bosses, and the large men who are either intent on no good—or something worse—and for the first time, in a long time, she chooses herself.

She leaves.

Standing in front of the two women who triggered her in a way she hasn't experienced in a while is a conflicting thing for Solana. She feels a hint of confusion, some satisfaction, and a hell of a lot of anger.

The alarms suddenly stop beeping, the silence briefly interrupted by the sound of the door shutting, signifying the departure of the last innocent.

Good

Solana has no intention on causing any harm to anyone who doesn't deserve it.

Including the kind, unassuming receptionist who couldn't have been older than 22.

Solana makes a note to make sure, after this is all said and done, she's set up with another job.

Maybe Bayley can take her on.

Chantel looks at Solana, recognition dawning. "You're…you're—"

"Exactly," Solana interrupts, moving to walk past them but not out of hearing distance. She looks around, taking in the opulent design. The luxury of it all. One things certain, they have a nice place.

Or, had.

Kiesha, however, seems less shocked and more pissed. "What the fuck do you think you're doing here?"

Solana ignores her, noticing the bar in the middle of the salon, wines stacked and practically full. She walks over, grabbing one, reading Domaine de la Romanée-Conti Grand Cru. Solana makes a face, lifting the bottle, "this looks expensive." And before either can respond, Solana pitches it against the nearest wall, red liquid dripping and staining the white, marble walls.

Both women shout with shock and fury. "You crazy b—"

"Finish that sentence, and I'll make sure the next thing to splatter like that bottle will be the both of you."

A small smile falls on Solana's face as the two women look toward the front door where another has entered.

Roman stands tall, dressed in all black, black shirt, dark jeans, black shoes. Even expensive black shades that he pulls up, revealing an equally dark menacing gaze that would make even her cower. But, she knows better.

Knows why he's so pissed.

Solana walks over to her husband, and the minute she's close enough, he tugs her against his chest, crashing his lips onto hers. For a second, Solana forgets they have an audience. The way he kisses her is all-consuming and captivating, trapping her in a world where it's just the two of them.

A place she loves to be.

A requirement for oxygen is the only reason for them separating, Solana certain her lips are nice and swollen. Roman looks down at her with that look. That look that lets her know exactly what awaits her when they get home.

He chuckles, running his thumb across her bottom lip, one hand planted firmly on her ass. Roman then looks over at the now seething Chantel and Kiesha. "If it was up to me, I'd fuck her right here in front of you and make the both of you bitches watch."

A blush rises up Solana's face. She certainly wasn't expecting him to say that. Just like she most definitely could never get with something like that.

Even this is a bit much for her, though well deserved.

Solana pulls away, taking the bat from one of the guards as she moves over to the register area. One look between it and them, a small smile on her face as she swings it down, breaking it instantly with one effective hit.

"You see," Roman starts as Solana smashes another register. "My wife told me what you said to her, that you upset her." Solana transitions to the shelves filled with hair products, bashing them in. "And when you upset my wife, you upset me." The other two guards, minus Bautista, also starting to destroy and vandalize the salon.

"And, it's never a good fucking idea to upset me." Roman finishes in an eerily calm voice, as Chantel starts stammering and stumbling.

"R—Roman, we didn't—" She's cut off and on the ground, Kiesha gasping to see Solana behind them, having taken the bat to the back of her friend and business partner.

"Only I can call him Roman," Solana asserts, ignoring the sound of Chantel whining and crying on the floor. "You two call him The Tribal Chief."

Kiesha swallows, watching Solana move back over to the wine shelf, throwing, tossing and smashing bottle after bottle.

"Please—" One of them cries, Solana isn't sure who, too caught up in the high and sweet taste of revenge. She's not a vindictive person, not even a violent person, but she is someone who's tired of letting people walk all over her.

Letting people hurt her.

No more.

"This is our life's work," Chantel moans, still on the ground, tears spilling down her face.

"You think I give a shit about that?" Roman sneers, doing his best to maintain his anger, focusing on his pride as his fine ass wife regains her voice and power. "That I ever gave a shit about either of you?"

It's the real issue here. The one Roman is not afraid or uncomfortable with calling out. They're upset they got cut off and are jealous of Solana, thus taking it out on her.

Big mistake.

Kiesha sniffles. "My—my Tribal Chief—"

"Be quiet," Solana mutters, walking past the two women, intentionally shoving Kiesha along the way. Looking around, Solana can't tell where the chaos starts and ends.

The place is all completely destroyed.

"You have two other locations," Solana reminds, tossing the bat to the side. All of that swinging took a lot out of her. She's tired, not to mention her chest is sore. A strange thing but also not considering her breast have been on the sensitive side lately.

Weird.

"They did," Roman corrects. Solana looks over at him, partially confused, but he keeps his gaze on the distraught women, coldly informing, "they're both currently being burned down to the fucking ground."

Chills form up and down Solana's arms. Roman didn't tell her about that part of the plan, though she can't lie and say she feels bad for them.

She doesn't.

Not at all.

Grabbing her purse off the counter, Solana bends down in front of them both, seeing how Chantel attempt to scurry backwards. Head tilted, the wife of the Tribal Chief asks in the calmest voice. "How's that for quiet and passive?"

Not wanting or needing a response, she straightens back up and walks toward Roman who initially takes her hand. The guards are all gathered, Bautista holding the door open. The door that's glass is entirely shattered.

Along with the front windows.

"By the way." Solana pulls out her Cartier sunglasses, sliding them over her eyes. Looking back at them, Roman's hand now placed comfortably on her ass, Solana smirks, "he loves when I'm on top."

[mariasont]

bimbo!assistant!reader masterlist

smut = ✧ clean (ish) = ♡ angst = ✩

newest to oldest

♡ hot seat, hotter mouth bimbo!reader convinces hotch to take a polygraph test

✧ priorities and pretty things your beauty routine is sacred, but so is aaron's favorite way to decompress. looks like tonight you'll have to manage both

✧♡ just the tip(s) aaron learns the hard way that upping your maintenance allowance has unexpected, explicit perks. especially when you insist on showcasing your newest investment while he's stuck miles away.

✩♡ collagen crisis skincare fixes a lot of things, but it won't stop you from spiraling over how much older aaron looks since he started dating you

♡ peak ovulation bimbo!assistant!reader's period tracker warns you to avoid attractive men today. you failed spectacularly.

♡ bought & paid for you push hotch's buttons just to see how far you can take it, and today, you finally find out

✧ third date rule the third date rule proves to be worth the wait when you and hotch experience your first time together

♡ hot & bothered (no, like, literally, you have a fever) bimbo!assistant!reader is feverish, clingy & just a little delirious, except, not too delirious to shamelessly flirt with your very attractive, very exasperated boyfriend.

♡ red flags & pink-colored glasses hotch shouldn't be at this bar, shouldn't be watching bimbo!assistant!reader while you dance in that too-short dress and he definitely shouldn't be the one trying to teach you a lesson about bad men, not when he's fighting every instinct to be one.

♡ cuddle retention program it’s valentine’s day and all bimbo!assistant!reader wants is for hotch to stay in bed a litttttleeee longer

✧ space between distraction & indulgence bimbo!assistant reader want's aaron attention. aaron wants to finish his case notes. too bad for him, you always get what you want

♡ house rules bimbo!asssitant!reader hasn't been answering her phone all day, hotch needs her to clarify something about a case report, or at least that's what he tells himself when he shows up at her house

✧ laced with love hotch is away on a case and insists you spend his money while he's gone, so you spend it on something you both enjoy later

♡ the funny thing about him the team thinks it's absurd that bimbo!assistant!reader finds hotch hilarious

♡ smiling like a fool hotch is the one making bimbo!assistant!reader flustered for once

♡ business of making babies bimbo!assistant!reader gets hotch worked up at the casual mention of kids

♡ rainy with a chance of hotch bimbo!assistant!reader gets caught in the rain

♡ talk about a bad date bimbo!assistant!reader went on a shitty ass date and calls hotch to her rescue

♡ training day bimbo!assistant!reader doesn't understand why hotch is giving her training lessons, but apparently he thinks she needs it

♡ good luck charm bimbo!assistant!reader is gone for the morning and leaves hotch a couple sticky notes

♡ jealousy, jealousy a witness flirts with hotch and bimbo!assistant!reader thinks that hotch is reciprocating

♡ semantics bimbo!assistant!reader flirts with an officer that has been driving hotch mad all day

♡ strawberry wine hotch is a lot more flirty when he's got some alcohol in him (bimbo!assistant!reader)

♡ my boss won’t be happy about this bimbo!assistant!reader is wrongfully arrested and hotch is not happy about it

♡ my assistant bimbo!assistant!reader can't reach a book so hotch helps you out

[red5131]

"For you darlin’ there is nothin’ I wouldn’t do."

summary: Joel brings you a present 

Warnings: none! Just fluff!

(I wrote this after watching episode six of season two. It just warmed my heart to see what Joel does for Ellie, so I just know he would do the same for his woman.)

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

You lean against the kitchen counter, nursing a glass of water. You rub your temple, a headache starting to brew in the depths of your mind. You had started working at the daycare in Jackson. Your days usually started with drinking some of Joel's coffee. You would lean against the counter, like you are now, a coffee mug in your grasp as you say goodbye to Joel as he leaves for patrol. The hand not holding the mug would gently grasp his jaw, his facial hair brushing against your hand as you leaned up and kissed him goodbye. He would leave after the tender kiss, his rough voice from just getting out of bed telling you that he loved you and that he would see you later.

Once you were more ready for the day, you would walk through the middle of town to the daycare, where your day would end by getting screamed at by four year olds.

While only being a couple years old when the apocalypse started, you wanted to follow in the footsteps of your mother and become a teacher. Of course that dream was ripped away once the modern world ended. When, for some, education was not important. Only survival was. But despite this, your mother taught you everything she knew about the English language. The semantics of it might have not stuck out to you, but books and reading did. Your father never allowed you to carry more than one book at a time, understandable, but you sometimes would had to read the same book over and over again until you could find a new one. While your mother passed away many years ago, her warmth and her love for children still resided in you.

So when the offer was mentioned you took it. However you had no idea what you were getting yourself into. These children..were little devils. On one side you couldn’t blame them, look at the world they were born into. The kind of lives they had to get used to. The loss that many of them have or would have to experience. The world had become a much crueler place. But despite all of that, the children could at least respect you a little more.

“Tough day darlin’?” 

You jumped at the sound of his voice, so lost in thought you didn’t hear the front door open or his footsteps. His chuckle warmed your chest. 

“Didn’t mean to scare ya.” 

You turned towards Joel, a tired smile lighting up your freckled face, “It okay. I scare easy, you know that. And it was.” 

Joel came closer, his scent infiltrating your nose. A strong earthy smell with a mix of gunpowder. He placed a horribly wrapped box on the counter beside you. 

You looked at him with suspicious eyes, “what is this?”

Joel’s lightly smiled a little, a smirk stretching across his features, “Open it darlin’.”

“You got me a present? It’s not even my birthday.” 

You gingerly turned towards the box, your hands coming up and resting on the top, “did you wrap this?”

Joel grumbled, “Yah, something wrong with it?” 

You giggled eyeing the wrinkled paper and the horrible tape placement, “No, nothing.” 

Joel rolled his eyes, “Will you just open the damn box.” 

While Joel loved to hear your giggle, he wanted you to open the box more. On his patrol today, he had come across a house that definitely once belonged to a book collector. Many of the books were ineligible or falling apart, but he was able to find a couple- a couple books that he knew you wanted to get your hands on. 

“Okay. Okay. You grump.” You grumbled giving him a fake glare as you pulled off the paper around the box. As soon as the wrapping paper was off, you pulled the box open.

Inside laid two books. A pretty worn out copy of The Lord of the Rings and The Game of Thrones. You stared in shock at the sight, the emotions starting to swirl in your chest. 

“Joel-”

“Are they not the right ones darlin’? I could have sworn these were the ones-”

You turned to him, your eyes welled with unleashed tears. It warmed your heart that despite his tough exterior that he would go so out of his way to do something like this for you. That he took the time to look through who knows how many houses and books to just find the ones that you wanted. 

“Hey, why..why are you crying? They aren’t the right ones? You..you can give me a list then, write down all the ones you want and I’ll-”

You step closer to him and grab the front of his jacket tugging him closer, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips. His heart beats widely under your hand, as his own arm encases your waist. 

“No Joel, they are perfect. Thank you. I hope you didn’t go through too much trouble.”

Joel cups one side of your face, forcing you to look into his eyes. Eyes that are filled with pure genuine affection and love.

“For you darlin’ there is nothin’ I wouldn’t do.”

*not edited*

[theemporium]

for your stocking stuffers, it wouldn’t be the holiday season without nico helping you put the star on the top of the tree 🌟

PLEASE NOT THE PHOTO😭thank you for requesting!🫶🏽

.

“I can help you.”

“I don’t need help.”

“It looks like you need help.” 

“It looks like you need to get your eyes checked.”

Nico didn’t even bother to hide his snort, which only pissed you off further as you turned your head to find him standing a few feet away. His hands were on his hips, his lips were pulled into a smile that looked far too smug for your liking and a stupidly endearing Christmas sweater that should look bad but doesn’t. 

Because apparently nothing can look bad on your stupidly attractive boyfriend. 

“Baby,” Nico sighed, his voice stupidly fond. “Let me help.” 

“I am perfectly capable of doing it myself,” you huffed, your lips pressed together as the chair beneath you started to precariously wobble. 

“You’re being stubborn,” he said, though it once again sounded fond.

“No, you said I couldn’t put the star up myself and now I am proving you wrong,” you corrected, tightly gripping onto said tree topper in your hand.

Nico shook his head. “I said it wasn’t a one person job since the tree is so tall.” 

“Semantics.” 

Nico let out a huff of laughter. 

“See,” you gave him a look before turning back to the tree that—now upon standing right next to it on a dodgy dining table chair—seemed a lot bigger than you remembered it being. “Barely any struggle to just lean over and—” 

The chair wobbled the second you put too much weight on one side, the balance growing shaky enough for it to begin to tilt on two legs. You barely had a chance to scream, feeling gravity already pull you towards the floor. Or, at least, you expected it to. 

But Nico was already there, his arms wound around your legs to hold you as the chair toppled over. 

Your lips were parted in shock, your hands gripping his shoulders as best you could from the angle he caught you at.

“Still think it’s a one person job?” 

You let out a huff, rolling your eyes even though your heart was pounding in your chest. “Dick.” 

Nico only grinned wider, squeezing your thighs. “I got you, baby, way more stable than a chair.”

His hands stayed on you as he placed you back down on the ground after placing the star at the top of the tree, grinning as he squeezed your hips to hold you close. 

“Don’t say it.” 

“Wasn’t going to,” he beamed before leaning in to press a lingering kiss to the top of your head. “No shame in being a dream team, schatz.” 

You grumbled but there was a small smile on your lips. “Thank you for helping, I guess.”

“Always, baby,” he hummed before turning his head to look at the tree. “Actually, I think it’s a little wonky—”

“Fuck off.”

“Kidding, babe. It’s perfect, you just look cute when you’re mad.”

.

[riality-check]

TW: past verbal and emotional abuse

The Harrington house is a game of perfection.

Steve has known this fact for as long as he can remember. There is a right way, a narrow way, a rigid way, of doing things. Numbers dictate all: rebounds, points, and assists for basketball, new PRs in freestyle and backstroke for swim. The numbers themselves do not matter; all that does is that they grow and shrink appropriately.

Infinite growth is not sustainable; not for Steve's stats, not for Richard's stocks. Both of them strive for it anyway.

The house must be clean. The parties can't be busted. The people of Hawkins will only say good things about the Harrington family. Gloria strives for these things, day in and day out.

The Harrington house is also a game of Perfection.

Steve hated that game growing up. The one with the little yellow pieces and the blue board. He was never able to get all the pieces in the right spot before the board spit them all back out.

It made a ticking noise, like a time bomb. Steve doesn't know when he started associating that sound with his parents.

It fits. It fits almost too well. They're fine, at least for a little while. The ticking starts quiet, then grows louder and louder until everything blows up.

The thing is, in Perfection, that the board blows up even if you put all the pieces in the right spots in time. The thing is, in the Harrington house, that everything blows up even if Steve does everything right.

The ticking lasts for days sometimes, weeks others. It's impossible, random, and impossibly random.

The only consistent thing is the board blowing up. And when that happens, so does the shouting.

The Party thinks that Tommy and Carol taught Steve to be cruel. That they're the ones who taught him how to bare his fangs and spit venom. That once he left them, the rage left him.

He's okay with letting them think that. It's easier than explaining that Richard and Gloria are the ones who taught him how to snap and shout, how to tear holes in other people with a few well-spoken barbs.

When Steve thinks of his parents, he thinks of fighting. He thinks of his father calling him useless and his mother calling him an idiot. He thinks of his mother calling his father dirt and his father calling his mother a bitch.

There are never any apologies. "I'm sorry" is never said in the Harrington house, even when the board gets reset.

They say "I got you pizza for dinner." "I saw this at the store and thought of you." "Do you want to come with me to get gas?"

And with that, the ticking starts up again.

Horrible things are said when the board blows up. Steve says horrible things when the board blows up. He's called his father an asshole and his mother self-absorbed and apologized without any apology at all.

He cleaned the pool instead.

Steve doesn't want to the board to blow up in the middle of the Munson trailer. It's why he's keeping his mouth shut while Eddie yells at him.

"What the hell, Stevie?" Eddie shouts, arms flying. "I told you that you can’t do that!"

“You told me you don’t want me to,” Steve says, staying calm and measured.

Calm and measured. Not blowing up. Steve isn’t going to snap or shout or bitch. He isn’t.

“Fucking semantics!”

“They were saying-”

“I don’t care what they were saying!” Eddie roars. “I don’t give a shit what they say about me!”

It’s true. Wayne calls Eddie “Teflon,” says that nothing sticks to him, least of all anyone’s opinion. Steve knows that Eddie doesn’t care about what most people in Hawkins think about him.

But he cares very much about what the people who care about him think.

Steve can say a whole lot of things right now. He’s angry, physically biting his tongue to ground himself. He can say a whole lot of things to cut Eddie to the bone, to end the argument and then some.

But he won’t.

Love is knowing how to hurt someone and choosing not to. It’s using a knife to split an apple to share instead of to cut skin to ribbons.

Steve can’t trust himself not to slash Eddie open. He says awful things when everything goes to hell like this, snaps back hard when snapped at first, operates purely on instinct.

He doesn’t want to hurt Eddie, so he keeps his mouth shut.

“I care that you could have gotten hurt when you swung at those assholes,” Eddie continues. “I care that I wasn’t there with you when you defended yourself. I care that you won’t let me take a look at your hands and make sure they’re alright.”

Steve squeezes the knuckles of this right hand in his left. It stings, but he’s fine. Nothing broken. He knows from experience

“Stop it, you’re hurting yourself,” Eddie barks.

Steve lets go of his hands, lets them hang loosely at his sides.

“So, what the hell, sweetheart?” Eddie asks, still loud, still snappish.

A variety of terrible answers surges to the front of Steve’s mind. Eddie’s biggest insecurities, the things he’s only told Steve when he thought he was asleep. Ways to wipe the anger off his face and replace it with stuff easier to manage: shock, hurt, sadness. Things he would say if he didn’t particularly like Eddie, if he were still in high school, if he were still in his parents’ house.

Steve doesn’t say anything. He keeps the knife in its drawer. He closes his eyes tight and breathes in once, then again.

“Hey,” Eddie says, softer.

Steve opens his eyes to find him a step closer, hands up in surrender.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says.

Oh.

Well.

Steve doesn’t know what to do with that.

He’s said it before. Of course he has. He knows the words, knows that he needed to say them to Dustin and Robin and Max, and he has. He’s stepped too far with jokes and forgot about some things and missed some things they’ve said.

But he’s never yelled at them. They’ve never yelled at him.

This is not how this is supposed to go. Eddie isn’t supposed to apologize. He’s supposed to clean Steve up or make him dinner or invite him along to go grocery shopping.

And Steve was supposed to snap back.

“It’s okay,” he says because that’s what he’s supposed to say, yeah?

Eddie shakes his head. “It’s not. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

“It was bound to happen.”

Eddie stares at him, big doe eyes shining, like he has five heads. It makes Steve want to put his bloody hands behind his back, make him shrink.

He swears he can hear ticking, but the board just reset. Didn’t it?

“What?” Eddie asks.

Steve shrugs. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not. I got scared, but that doesn’t mean I get to yell at you. That’s not okay.”

What does Eddie get to do, if not yell?

I deserve it, Steve thinks, but he’s smart enough to know that saying that out loud will just lead to another fight.

There’s been barely any time to put the pieces back.

Steve doesn’t get it. But, he figures he’s always been a little slow on the uptake, so he can watch. Observe. Figure it out later on his own. He’s pretty good at that.

“Okay,” Steve says.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, and he holds his hands out for Eddie to take.

He’s dragged along to the sink, where Eddie rinses the cuts out with cool water before bandaging them up with the remnants of a box of Band-Aids from the bathroom. When they’re dry and finished, he presses a kiss to each knuckle, feather light.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, looking at Steve very seriously.

“Me, too,” Steve says, voice a little hoarse. “I’m sorry.”

It feels good to say. It feels good to mean.

Standing there in the kitchen of a trailer in Forest Hills, looking at the mismatched furniture and half-full ashtrays of the living room, holding hands with his boyfriend formerly accused of murder and apologizing for the first time and meaning it, Steve feels like he can finally breathe.

The ticking has finally stopped, and silence sounds so sweet.

[max1461]

Ok, ok. This has gotten to the point where it is simply intolerable, I cannot describe it as any other way than I am being raped from the inside, my own self is gone and in its absence other people are inside my body, inside my mind, violating me completely. I feel that I have no free will. There is never a break. It is accretionary; once I have been violated, my physical body it feels like but also my mind, it just stays there, the violating-instrument stays stuck in me throbbing. Please, please, I have not had a break in six months, it has been accreting for six months, I need this to stop. I do not know what is happening. There are two definite "sides", it's like my middle was removed and these strange sensations and false memories and so on run up my sides and then fuse in the middle, into something wrong and awful. But my actual grasp of the facts, both purely semantic knowledge and reality-checking, are completely intact. But everything else is messed up. All food tastes like piss, good feels like bad, I can't think clearly. I need this to stop, I cannot wait any longer, I need this to stop.

The sides correspond to my eyes, the sides thing has a reality to it in the sense that if I close one eye my perception of the world will be colored by the sensations from one side, if I close the other eye vice versa, and often it feels like I have different "intentions" in my two eyes. When this started I literally felt like I was going cross-eye all the time, there was this obvious visual twisting effect, but only when looking at things where the weird scrambling-and-fusing effect had messed up my perceptions internally.

Also there is a definitely feeling of being "down in myself", of being stuck "down" inside my mind. Like my brain's internal body-map, and especially my face, is not lined up with my actual body but is like "way down in my mind", and my body is sort of "empty", if that makes sense? And sometimes it tries to fill up my body but the parts go to the wrong places, my head goes to my hand or so on. I don't believe it's actually there, but it's SO VIVID, it FEELS like it's actually there. I'll feel my nose protruding out of my arm and shit. And I'm somehow twisted backwards, like, the outside world and my mind's eye have been "flipped", so that what's in my head feels more vividly real than what's actually real, and what's actually real feels like it's being inserted directly into my head.

A lot of overlap with psychosis, but all my doctors have said they don't think this is it. Mainly because my speech is unaffected, it's fully linear, and my reality-checking and grasp of the facts seems fine. To that I would add, uh...

Ok, most mental issues seem "fluid". In the sense that, like, say you have anxiety. Well, you can be anxious about one thing one day, then about another thing the next, it ebbs and flows and so on. I gather that psychosis is a least a little but like this, your voices and delusions ebb and flow. I cannot stress enough that what is going on with me is not like this. It is absolutely accretionary. Every little momentary sensation or mental image or whatever, external or internal, builds up and "sticks" within my mind, it doesn't pass, it doesn't go away, it just accretes as a huge indescribable blob. When the body map stuff gets really weird and I start to feel like my head is in a different place or my left and right sides are getting pulled, there is often visual flashing and other strange visual artifacts, and strange, horrible smells. The smells are the most vivid sensory part. And then these incomprehensible sensations just stick there and accrete, I feel mentally and physically twisted into a knot, twisted around myself and pulled through myself a thousand times and glued like that. This goes also for my memories and so on, even though I no what happened factually the actual memory is not of that, it's some horrible twisted thing. And anyway, when all this happens, it feels like a straight up computer glitch. Not a mental problem, a fucking computer glitch. And it feels like I am being progressively rewritten.

I have had an MRI, it was normal. At first the doctors thought this may have to do with epilepsy but I've had a few EEGs, they were normal, and I was on epilepsy meds for a few months and they didn't help. It's been almost 7 months now and I can't handle it any longer. Nothing has helped at all, it's all day, no breaks, even when I sleep I just have awful incomprehensible dreams all night. It is literally hell.

Please, if anyone has ANYTHING they can think of to try, or anything, let me know, I am really and truly desperate.

[lmskitty]

The JJk fandom has some INCREDIBLE writers and artists and I just felt like showing a bit of love so here are some of my fave Satosugu fics!!!

Audience by @c-valentino

"Three years after the KFC breakup, Satoru caves and visits his old friend late at night with a problem. They are far from what they used to be, but when he hopes they might get a second chance after all, assassins show up to hunt down Suguru."

As you like it by planetarypedxng

"Ieiri Shoko has laid down the law: the three of them will hereafter hang out only at Geto’s place, because Geto is the perfect host, and because Shoko refuses to clean up after anyone, least of all men, and because Gojo’s room always disgustingly reeks of sex.

Gojo had laughed at that, a little too loudly, perhaps, and curiously did not have a single comment about it. What can he say? The truth? That he was still a virgin?"

Falling in love is easy. Admitting it is not. By @ellionwrites

"At 20 years old - sharing an apartment and joint Jujutsu missions - Geto and Gojo are inseparable. But it takes Geto going on a first date for them to start to figure out their feelings."

Two sorcerers chillin' in a hot tub (five feet apart cause they’re not gay) by @hollow-lime-green

"Geto Suguru has almost two decades of practice pretending not to see things that are clearly there, and Gojo Satoru has a well-documented history of being the most socially-stunted motherfucker alive.

That’s how they got here.

Love is in the hands by @thequeenofsarcaasm

That’s also why neither of them know where the hell they’re going with this."

To be a woman by @sadgreekboys

"After getting kicked from his home for being queer, Geto Suguru comes across his old best friend/first love, in a gay bar. He finds a new home in him."

close your eyes (nothing changed at all) by themoonisdead

"Satoru is the strongest. She is a woman. She is not meant to be those two things at the same time.

VIRGIN GETS WRECKED BY BEST FRIEND [FREE PORN VIDS] (18++) WATCH NOW!!!!! By Daisy__dupes

"That day in xx village, suguru makes a call" -what if Suguru had called Satoru for help that day?

Over the Threshold by @fushiglow

(Satoru gets hit with a sex curse and asks Suguru to help him!!!)

4AM by damiselart

"Larger than life K-pop idol, Satoru, approaches introverted record producer, Getō Suguru, to collaborate on his debut Japanese-language studio album. They both get more out of the experience than expected — for better and for worse."

(Tattoo artist Geto and model Gojo. Hot as fuck.)

Post-It Notes by monochromevelyn

"Shoko was sick of watching her two best friends pining for each other. Don't worry, she had a plan to move things in the right direction."

The Two-Headed Calf by malneiro

"Gojo gets a knock on his door late at night: Getou is sick and Mimiko and Nanako don't know who else to turn to."

Vows to Amida Butsu -

" Gojo has a great idea. Geto thinks his classmate should at least ask him cutely instead of just announcing his intent. Consent is important, after all."

and Long Bitter Autumn - both by Daphnerunning and Galiko

"Five years after his best friend left Jujutsu High to become an evil overlord, Gojo Satoru can't sleep. And there's not THAT much difference between a butt dial and a booty call, semantically speaking."

There are so many amazing satosugu fics and most of the writers listed here have multiple incredible fics but these are just some of my absolute faves!!!

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

[kalinara]

So, I've been thinking a lot about that "he destroyed mine" line of Scott's in X-Factor. I'm stealing the scan from @rei-ismyname here, sorry!

So...here's the thing. It doesn't really work for me.

This is probably a surprise, since I'm one of the biggest Xavier haters that I know. If Xavier has no haters then I am dead, et cetera.

And as an incredibly biased Cyclops fan, I am always big on deconstructing their relationship and exactly what Xavier had done to him and how it plays into Scott as the man he is today.

But I really don't think that this is how Scott sees their relationship. Even at their worst.

The biggest issue, of course, is that Scott Summers is probably the ONE member of the Original Five that Xavier genuinely saved from a far worse situation that was never going to get better.

At the time that Xavier met Scott, the latter was being beaten, abused and used by a weapon by Jack Winters, a thug with telepathy and an unbreakable diamond form. Xavier got him out of there, and depending on the version that you're reading, even assisted him with KILLING Jack to save their lives.

Now, Jack was a thug. His power level is hard to judge in a few appearances, but he wasn't particularly intelligent. It's very probable that at some point, Scott would have gotten away.

But then there's Mr. Sinister. He ran the orphanage Scott escaped from, and unlike Jack, is undoubtedly a very powerful man. There's a reason that, in the timeline that Xavier dies early, Scott's working as Sinister's right hand man. (Albeit one who is eventually revealed to have his own, secretly altruistic agenda.)

If Sinister wanted Scott back, Jack Winters was NOT going to be an obstacle. And Scott, on his own, would have been easy pickings. Charles Xavier, though, has more than enough power, both psychically and materially, to protect this child.

Of course, this doesn't make him a saint. The fact that he, by his own admission, took this already abused child and decided to make him the vanguard of his child army is pretty inexcusable. Xavier only succeeds in being the best of Scott's terrible father figures because of the competition.

(I've mentioned before, but this context does make Scott's treatment of poor Laura Kinney in the 00s make perfect sense. They have, when you actually look at it, remarkably similar backstories. Xavier "helped" him by using him as a weapon for a good cause, so Scott's thinks he's doing the same thing for Laura. And it's, instead, incredibly fucked up.)

So anyway, I think Scott rightfully has a lot of things to be angry at Xavier about. Xavier used him, manipulated him, over and over again. At least as far as we can tell, he never got the poor kid any real help for any of his massive traumas.

But the line still bothers me.

Maybe it's an issue of semantics. "He destroyed mine!" seems to indicate that Scott had something good going on before Xavier got into the picture, that Xavier then ruined. As opposed to what generally tends to happen, which is that Scott's already in a terrible position that Xavier takes advantage of.

And to be honest, I'm not really sure when that would be.

AvX was fucked before Xavier got into the picture, and while killing Xavier gave everyone a reason to turn on Scott, I'm not sure they wouldn't have found some OTHER reason to turn on him anyway.

Scott's position in the Rosenberg run was pretty bleak all around. We do get to see the very end, when the X-Men finally return and have a happy reunion. But it seemed like Krakoa started right afterward, and for all its faults, Krakoa was a time when Scott got to be with his wife, and raise his son, and spend time with his brothers, daughter, and even implicitly his granddaughter.

And while Scott DID end up on trial for everything that Krakoa did, something he could reasonably be angry at the entire Council for, this was in the context of Krakoa's fall. And Xavier's betrayal came later.

Now, in Raid on Graymalkin, Scott was FURIOUS about the deaths on the ship whose name I can't remember. Now, we know that, per From the Ashes's Infinity Comic, Xavier had populated that ship with mindless clones. But we did see him telepathically force Scott to watch him do it, without any explanation, so he's pretty fucked up about it.

That makes sense to me. "He killed a lot of people!" is incorrect but makes sense. "He destroyed a lot of lives!" makes sense. "He did a lot of fucked up shit to me!" makes sense. "He destroyed mine!" really doesn't.

(It might for JEAN. While Xavier did initially help her out of that coma as a kid, everything else - getting her to join the X-Men, sending her into space, and so on...that could fit. So one possible wilder interpretation could be that Scott is channeling his wife at the moment? But I don't think she's as inclined to Summers family fisticuffs.)

I mean, it's a throwaway line in a comic that's already ending. It's perfectly feasible as just Scott being a bit incoherent, exacerbated by Xavier's weird telepathic virus effect. But I like overly dissecting things on a regular basis, so here we are.

[neurotica-tales]

Here it is—story four of the 1K Likes Special! I hope you all enjoy it!

By now, you’ve probably already read Forged in Obsession (Yandere Hiccup x Reader) and The First Kindness (Yandere Tuffnut x Reader), right? Well, this new entry takes us back—before confessions, before traps, before anyone realized just how far gone Hiccup really was.

This time, we see the descent through someone else’s eyes.

Tuffnut only meant to watch. To observe the chaos as his Chief stumbled headfirst into love for a dragon-loving traveler. He found it hilarious—at first. But the more he watched Hiccup spiral, the more fascinated he became.

And then, in the middle of a fish war, everything changed.

Tuffnut didn’t think he’d ever understand what went on in Hiccup’s head.

Until the moment he did.

Shoutout to @sf-renard & @gudaworks for following along the journey with me this entire time! You’ve been here from the start, and now you’re tangled in the story just like the rest of us.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Caught in the Net (Yandere Tuffnut POV) (1K Likes Special 4/10)

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Tuffnut Thorston didn’t mean to get involved.

He was only watching Hiccup fall in love—for science. For chaos. For comedy. Berk’s fearless leader becoming a stammering, love-struck disaster? It was the best entertainment he’d seen in months. Tuffnut documented every embarrassing moment like a dedicated scholar of ridiculous romance.

But when a chaotic fish fight lands him flat on his back—and you kneel to help him with a smile that isn’t mocking or wary, just kind—Tuffnut feels something shift.

Suddenly, you’re the one who’s interesting.

And the chaos-loving, roof-loitering, worm-collecting Viking finds himself starting a whole new act. One he never expected to star in.

Because this time, the story isn’t about Hiccup falling.

It’s about him.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Companion Piece: Forged in Obsession (Yandere Hiccup x Reader), The First Kindness (Yandere Tuffnut x Reader)

Up Next: Just Another Fish Fight (Ruffnut's POV), Yandere Tuffnut Headcanon, Yandere Hiccup Headcanon

To find my master list, click HERE.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Tuffnut had been watching Hiccup for weeks.

Not in a creepy way—at least, not in any way he’d consider creepy. He was merely curious. Observational. Scientific, even. After all, something had been happening to the Chief of Berk lately, and it was hilarious.

It all started when that new traveler arrived—hooded, soft-footed, eyes too wide for someone who walked among dragons. They drifted through the village like a breath of wind, quiet and strange, head tilted back whenever a dragon flew overhead. Tuffnut noticed them in passing, sure. Everyone did. They were new. Foreign. Kind of dreamy-looking in a foggy, “I-talk-to-flowers” kind of way. But what really caught his attention wasn’t them. It was Hiccup.

The man began glitching.

Suddenly, the Chief of Berk—mighty, respected, painfully sincere Hiccup Haddock—was off his game. Dropping tools. Zoning out. Smiling at nothing. Stammering. Tuffnut saw it all. He always saw everything. That’s what made him Berk’s official unofficial watcher. He called it “secret surveillance.” Gobber called it “loitering in roofs like a deranged chicken.”

Semantics.

At first, he didn’t realize it was a pattern. He’d just been looking for a quiet spot to nap when he noticed Hiccup standing behind the forge, holding a length of iron in one hand and staring off into space. His dragon, Toothless, was curled up nearby, tail swishing lazily, but Hiccup? The guy looked like someone had slapped him with a haddock and told him it was raining candy. That kind of dazed, dreamy expression.

Tuffnut watched for a minute, chewing his pickled herring, and waited to see what broke the trance. The answer: footsteps.

Soft ones.

From the traveler.

They wandered into view, brushing a hand along a sun-warmed stone wall, and Hiccup went stiff as a plank. Then he stumbled over a bucket. Actually tripped. Like, flailed arms, wobbled knees, full “I meant to do that” recovery. Tuffnut had to slap both hands over his mouth to keep from wheezing out loud.

That was Day One.

After that, he started watching. Closely.

He began keeping a mental log. Then a physical log. Then an annotated sketchbook labeled “Hiccstruck: A Chief’s Descent.” He perched on roofs and eavesdropped from the rafters of the forge, sometimes while upside down, just to test whether perspective changed the hilarity. It didn’t.

Hiccup would fumble around the forge like he’d forgotten how hands worked. When the traveler showed up, he’d freeze, go pink in the ears, and mutter complete nonsense.

“Act One: The Stalking Accusation,” Tuffnut whispered to himself the day Hiccup pulled the traveler aside. “Starring: Hiccup, paranoid and defensive. Guest-starring: the traveler, confused and innocent.”

He nearly fell off a barrel laughing when they replied, “I was watching your dragon, not you.” With that wide-eyed honesty? Oh, Tuffnut wheezed for a good five minutes.

And then Toothless nosed around like the wingman he was clearly born to be, and Hiccup just melted. One blink and he went from suspicion to soft-focus longing. It was almost romantic. Almost.

But it was definitely hilarious.

“ACT TWO: Hiccup discovers emotions,” Tuffnut narrated dramatically in his head. “Watch as the Dragon Master spirals into romantic ruin!”

He followed them after that. Not in a weird way. Not like… lurking. More like strategic tailing. For science. For data.

He tracked how often Hiccup smiled like a total dork (thirty-nine times in one week), how long he stood at the doorway of the forge waiting for the traveler to pass (almost four hours on Thursday alone), and how many wooden tokens he’d carved into vaguely heart-shaped things (eight, but Tuffnut suspected there were more hidden).

He started sketching them, too—not the traveler, not really, but the effects. The changes. Hiccup’s new twitchy hand gestures, the way he pushed his hair back and straightened his vest when the traveler walked by. The little moments where his voice cracked mid-sentence or he forgot what he was doing entirely.

The day he made that pendant—Gronkle Iron, polished to a ridiculous sheen—and offered it to them like it was the last treasure in the Archipelago? Tuffnut had to leave the area. He almost gave himself away choking on fermented eel jerky. He stumbled behind a cart and slapped his palm against his face, whispering, “FULL SIMP ACTIVATION. HICCUP HAS LEFT THE BUILDING.”

He told Ruffnut all about it.

“Our dear Chief’s gonna propose by next week,” he cackled. “Or die trying.”

She barely looked up. “Tell me when he cries. That’s when it gets good.”

Fair. Ruffnut understood drama. She just didn’t care about romance.

But Tuffnut? He was obsessed. Not with the traveler—no, no. With the situation. The unraveling. The sheer unpredictability of watching the village’s most responsible citizen turn into a love-struck disaster.

And still, somewhere in the back of his brain, a tickle.

Not jealousy.

Not yet.

Just… curiosity.

What did the traveler do to get in that deep? Were they magic? Did they hex Hiccup with some kind of dragon-lover’s spell? Or was it just that smile? That calm, steady way of listening? They didn’t even seem to notice Hiccup’s spiral. That made it worse. Made it better.

Tuffnut leaned into the chaos.

He started laying bets with himself. Would Hiccup invent a new dragon saddle just to impress them? (Yes.) Would he try to write poetry and burn it before anyone found out? (Also yes. Tuffnut salvaged it. It was awful. He read it out loud to his chickens.)

He started naming the acts like a theater show:

Act Three: The Nervous Forge Monologues

Act Four: The Awkward Elbow Brush of Destiny

Act Five: Panic and Pining

It was the best show in town.

And Tuffnut was front row center.

Until the day that fish hit him in the back, and everything changed.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

It was just another day on Berk—bright skies, salt in the air, and the unmistakable sound of someone screaming about salmon.

In other words: perfect.

The market was bustling. Crates of cabbages rolled crooked on uneven cobblestone, a kid chased a Terrible Terror with a string, and Stoick’s old memorial statue was wearing a new beard made entirely of moss. Berk was alive in the only way Berk knew how to be: gloriously chaotic.

And at the epicenter of it all?

A full-scale Thorston sibling meltdown.

It had started, as most things did between Ruffnut and Tuffnut, with petty theft and one-sided declarations of divine law.

“You stole my cod, you bucket-skulled plague lizard!” Ruffnut bellowed, pointing an accusatory herring in his direction.

Tuffnut, perched precariously atop a barrel of pickled eels, held up the offending fish like it was a holy relic. “It was not theft. It was offering. To the Great Spirit of Salmon!”

“What spirit?”

“The one that guides us to spiritual awakening through aquatic flailing!” he cried, just before attempting to balance the cod on his head and walk backward into a cabbage cart.

The cod promptly slid off and slapped him across the face. The cart tipped. Several confused chickens fled the scene.

Ruffnut responded the only way a Thorston knew how: she hurled a mackerel with the force of a catapult. It hit him square in the ear.

That’s when the chaos bloomed.

Vikings gathered like flies to honey—or in this case, like seagulls to a seafood buffet. Children squealed with joy. Some elderly villagers brought chairs. Someone started passing out extra fish, like ammunition.

And then all fishy Hel broke loose.

Tuffnut vaulted over crates with a trout in each hand, screeching battle cries like “FOR THE SHRINE!” and “THE FISH COMMANDS ME!” Ruffnut retaliated with a shrimp net, lassoing it through the air like a berserker at sea.

They clashed with all the grace of drunken goats. Spectators ducked as flounders flew like floppy axes.

Tuffnut was in his element.

He cackled, slipping on a herring, recovering with a barrel roll, then launching a pair of sardines with such force they slapped someone’s helmet right off. He caught a sardine midair in his teeth and declared it a sign.

“THE SALMON SMILE UPON ME!” he howled, pointing skyward.

Victory felt inevitable. He was winning. Obviously.

Until Ruffnut—ruthless, relentless, and really good at playing dirty—lobbed an entire cod at his back.

It struck him like divine retribution.

His bag, slung carelessly over his shoulder, went flying.

It spun in the air—majestic, horrifying, overstuffed—and when it hit the ground, it detonated.

The result was pure, unspeakable carnage.

Worms. Worms everywhere. Some alive, some probably undead. Berries burst across the cobblestones, painting the street in red mush. Fish of every variety splattered like sea-flavored confetti.

The crowd roared with laughter. Ruffnut raised her arms like a victorious gladiator. Tuffnut, stunned but undeterred, dropped to his knees to retrieve his squirming “offerings.”

He crawled across the stones, frantically scooping handfuls of goo and scales and berry guts into the remains of his bag. “Nooo! These were for the worm moon ritual!” he cried.

People jeered. Some began flinging spare shrimp. A haddock clipped his shoulder.

And then—

“Time out!”

The voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the madness like a sharpened oar.

Tuffnut froze. A sardine flopped limply against his elbow.

The crowd murmured, confused. Ruffnut lowered a fish mid-throw.

You stepped into the circle of chaos like a stormfront. Calm, certain, and very clearly done.

You weaved through the crowd, ducked a fish without blinking, and planted yourself in the eye of the madness.

“No,” you said, your tone half exasperated and half bemused. “I do not want to be pummeled by fish and get covered in fish slime.”

Silence.

Utter, beautiful, fish-slathered silence.

Tuffnut blinked fish guts out of his eyes. You were standing over him. Him, with a worm in one hand, a berry in the other, and at least two unknown fish lodged in his tunic.

And then—you crouched down.

Just like that. As if it were the most natural thing in the world.

You reached for his ruined bag and began helping him gather his unspeakable mess. You didn’t hesitate. You didn’t recoil. You didn’t even flinch when one of the worms tried to bite your finger.

Tuffnut just stared. Not even trying to pretend otherwise.

“Thanks,” he said eventually, blinking. “Most people don’t touch my stuff. Probably because it bites back.”

You gave a crooked smile, brushing a lock of hair out of your face. “Geez, no wonder.”

You picked up a squashed berry and glanced at him. “So… why a fish throwing war?”

“Why not a fish throwing war?” he responded, grinning instinctively.

You laughed. Not a polite chuckle, not a horrified giggle, but an actual laugh. Like it was funny. Like he was funny.

Then you stood, extended your hand, and said those words that would root themselves in the folds of his brain forever:

“Of course. Need a hand up?”

For a moment, he didn’t move.

The chaos of the square disappeared. The crowd was still there. Ruffnut was still scowling in the background, someone was probably still chewing on a crab stick. But all of it became white noise.

Because you were smiling at him.

Not mockingly. Not out of politeness. Not the way people usually smiled when they were indulging one of his antics.

You were just... there.

Present. Kind.

Looking at him like he mattered.

His fingers wrapped around yours slowly, and he let you pull him to his feet. He didn’t let go right away.

You didn’t seem to notice.

But Tuffnut did.

Later that night, long after the sun dipped beneath the sea and the last sardine had been scraped off someone’s roof, Tuffnut sat in the corner of his hut with his chicken ledger open across his lap.

He always tracked the village’s oddities. Hiccup’s strange behaviors, weather patterns, goat conspiracies.

Tonight, he drew a face.

Not Hiccup’s.

Yours.

He stared at it a long time.

Then, beside it, with a strange little smirk tugging at his lips, he scribbled one word in crooked block letters:

“Mine?”

And then beneath that, in smaller script:

“Act Three: Plot twist.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Tags: @mel-vaz

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

[moniquesha]

exfil

part three: first job back.

18+

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Shaken but unable to walk away, you find yourself back in the fight. The past lingers, the weight of old habits settling in. And when the moment tests you, someone is not convinced you’re ready.

Warnings: Angst. PTSD. Panic attack. Violence. Mentions of past trauma.

a/n: if you haven't noticed yet, this is my attempt in the most realistic way a soldier can act towards others! in other words, this is a slow burn series.

“I detected irregularities in your vitals,” Vision said, eyes scanning you. “Your heart rate is still elevated.”

You sighed, barely suppressing an eye roll. “Yeah, thanks, I noticed.”

Vision tilted his head, studying you for a second longer before concluding, “You should sit.”

You weren’t going to argue with a synthezoid, not when your legs still felt unsteady. Before you could even think about finding a seat, Wanda appeared beside you, pressing a bottle of water into your hand.

“Here,” she said softly.

You hesitated. Then, with a muttered thanks, you took it.

Wanda didn’t leave. She just stood there, watching you like she was debating whether or not to read your mind.

You shot her a look. “Don’t.”

“I wasn’t going to,” she replied, but there was something too innocent in her voice.

You narrowed your eyes. “Wanda.”

She sighed, crossing her arms. “Fine. But only because I don’t need to.” She tilted her head slightly, searching your face. “It’s written all over you.”

You looked away, taking a sip of water. It didn’t make the bitterness in your throat go away. By now, the others had gathered again—Bucky, Yelena, Sam, and of course, Tony, who looked way too satisfied with himself for dragging you back inside.

Bruce was there, too, watching cautiously from the sidelines. Clint and Rhodes had started talking amongst themselves, probably debating whether or not this was their problem.

Thor, at least, had the decency to look a little lost.

You exhaled, staring down at the bottle in your hands.

Then, Tony clapped his hands together. “Alright, so, now that we’ve all had our little emotional meltdown—”

“We?” Sam scoffed.

“—can someone please tell me what exactly we’re doing here?” Tony ignored him, looking at Yelena. “You’re the one stirring this pot, so start talking.”

Yelena glanced at you before answering.

“I asked her to help with Fontaine.”

Tony raised a brow. “And her response was to nearly pass out in the parking lot?”

“More or less,” Bucky muttered.

Tony exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “God, I hate this job.”

“Technically, you don’t have a job anymore,” Rhodey reminded him.

Tony waved a hand. “Semantics.” Then, he turned back to you. “Alright, what’s your deal?”

You clenched your jaw. “I don’t have a deal.”

“Oh, you so do,” Tony shot back. “Look, I get it. You wanna stay out of this. You don’t wanna go running back into another spy thriller disaster. But—news flash—you already care.” He pointed at the water bottle in your hands. “That’s why you’re still here.”

You looked away. “I didn’t have a choice.”

Tony scoffed. “You always have a choice.”

You exhaled sharply.

Silence hung in the air.

Yelena spoke next, voice measured. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t need you.”

You swallowed hard.

Bucky, for once, said nothing.

You let out a breath, staring at the ground.

Then, finally—

“I said I’ll read the damn file.”

Yelena’s shoulders relaxed slightly.

Tony smirked. “Look at that. Progress.”

You shot him a glare. “Don’t push it, Stark.”

He held his hands up in surrender, still grinning. You sighed again, rubbing your temples. This was a mistake. You knew it.

But just like Tony said—you already cared.

Your apartment was quiet when you stepped inside. Too quiet.

You locked the door behind you, tossing your keys onto the small table near the entrance. The lights flickered on automatically, casting a dull glow over the space—small, simple, nothing like the places you used to stay in when you were somebody.

Now? You were just someone trying to get through the day.

You shrugged off your jacket, throwing it over a chair before making your way to the kitchen. You grabbed a glass, filled it with water, and leaned against the counter, staring at nothing.

The file Yelena had given you sat on your coffee table. Untouched.

You exhaled sharply.

Against your better judgment, you walked over and picked it up. The paper felt heavier than it should have.

You don’t have to do this.

That’s what you told yourself. But it was a lie.

Because the second you took that file, the second you agreed to read it, you were already in.

Like a bad habit you couldn’t shake. You sat down, flipping open the folder. The first thing that greeted you was a photo.

Contessa Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

Her face stared back at you, just as smug as you remembered.

You skimmed the documents, scanning the details, the movements, the suspected operations. Some things you knew. Some things you wished you didn’t.

You leaned back, rubbing your temple.

This was a mistake.

A big one.

You should’ve burned the file, walked away, never answered another call from Yelena again. But instead, you were sitting here, debriefing yourself, like you still belonged in this world.

Like you were still the agent you used to be. You sighed, shutting the file. You’d read the rest later. For now, you needed sleep. You haven't even noticed how time is the quickest when you worry. The sun barely peeked through your curtains when you woke up, a dull headache pressing against your skull.

You had slept—technically. But it wasn’t the kind of rest that left you feeling any better. Your body still felt heavy, your mind still restless.

For a moment, you just lay there, staring at the ceiling. You could still feel the weight of the file sitting on your coffee table. The second you touched it, there was no going back.

But was there ever a chance of walking away?

You sighed, finally forcing yourself out of bed. The cold air hit your skin immediately, grounding you in reality.

The apartment was as quiet as it was last night, save for the occasional hum of the city outside. You went through the motions—brushed your teeth, washed your face, threw on whatever was clean.

Then, without thinking, your eyes flickered to the coffee table.

The file was still there. Untouched.

You exhaled sharply. Then, reluctantly, you sat down and flipped it open again.

This time, you really read it.

The more you took in, the more you realized why Yelena had asked for your help. Fontaine wasn’t just another opportunist trying to play in the big leagues—she had reach. Resources. Plans that ran deep, deeper than most people realized.

And you? You knew things about her that no one else did.

Because once upon a time, she had been your fix.

That part still made your stomach turn.

You’re out, you reminded yourself. You left that life behind.

But if that were really true, why were you still sitting here, memorizing every detail in that file?

Your phone buzzed. You hesitated before grabbing it.

A message from Yelena.

Yelena: Morning. So… how much do you hate me right now?

You stared at the screen for a long moment.

Then, with a sigh, you typed back.

You: Still deciding.

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

Yelena: Fair. Coffee?

You ran a hand down your face. You had a choice.

You could ignore this. Pretend like you never saw the file. Go about your day like none of this mattered.

Or—

You exhaled, already reaching for your jacket.

You: Where?

The café was a quiet hole-in-the-wall kind of place—nothing fancy, nothing flashy. The kind of spot you’d pass by a hundred times and never notice.

That’s why you didn’t like that Bucky was sitting at the table with Yelena when you walked in.

You stopped just inside the door, debating whether you should turn around and leave.

Yelena saw you first. “Ah, there you are.” She waved you over like this was some casual brunch meetup and not an attempt to drag you back into something you had no business touching.

Bucky turned, catching your eye. You met his gaze for a split second before looking away, sighing as you walked over.

“This wasn’t part of the deal,” you muttered, dropping into the seat across from them.

“Relax,” Yelena said, taking a sip of her coffee. “He was already here when I got here.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Wasn’t expecting you either.”

“Good,” you said flatly. “We can both be disappointed.”

Yelena smirked, but Bucky just sighed, leaning back in his seat. He looked like he’d been here a while—coffee half gone, a plate pushed to the side.

You ordered yours without looking up, rubbing a hand over your face. “So?” you said after a beat. “What’s the plan, then? Or am I just here for the ambiance?”

Yelena leaned forward slightly. “You read it?”

You hesitated. Then, finally—

“Yeah.”

Bucky didn’t react, just took another sip of his drink.

Yelena, though, watched you carefully. “And?”

You exhaled. “And it’s bad. I didn’t know she divorced Everette Ross, and I didn’t know she had jurisdiction over stuff that was supposed to be SHIELD’s files only.”

“No kidding,” Bucky muttered.

You ignored him. “Fontaine’s been playing a long game. And she’s good at it. I just don’t know what she’s doing with all this intel. Yet.” You glanced at Yelena. “You sure you wanna do this?”

Yelena shrugged. “Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

That didn’t mean it was the right choice.

You tapped your fingers against the table. “It’s not just her. She’s got people. Connections. A lot of them.” You looked between them. “As far as I know after Sam’s heroic event, she has Walker on her side. You two better be ready for that.”

Bucky met your gaze. “Are you?”

That question sat between you like dead weight.

You didn’t answer. Because you weren’t sure you wanted to.

After discussing more points, and probably trying to convince that you could be the girl on the computer while they did all the fighting. You realize now that you should’ve just walked out of that café, tossed the file into the nearest gutter, and ignored Yelena’s texts until she got the hint.

But instead, they insisted that you should also be there, no skills wasted—and after 5 hours later you're now standing in a dimly lit warehouse, double-checking your gear, because you had agreed to run a damn extraction mission for stolen vibranium.

Some things never change.

Bucky was securing a suppressed rifle across his back, his metal fingers adjusting the strap. Yelena was beside him, flipping a knife between her fingers like she was waiting for an excuse to use it.

“Let me get this straight,” you muttered, pulling on your gloves. “T’Challa has an entire army of elite warriors, but we’re the ones handling this?”

“Dora Milaje are occupied,” Bucky said, pocketing the knife. “So he asked us.”

You frowned. “And we said yes?”

Yelena snorted. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

You shot her a glare before looking at them both. “Fine. What’s the plan?”

Yelena pulled out a small tablet, tapping the screen. A blueprint of the warehouse appeared.

“The vibranium shipment is here,” she said, pointing to a storage area near the back. “Heavily guarded, but nothing we can’t handle.”

Bucky glanced at the map. “Security?”

“Armed. Mercenary types,” Yelena replied. “Not Fontaine’s best, but enough to be annoying.”

You sighed. “Great.”

Yelena smirked. “Come on, old friend. It’ll be just like old times.”

“Yeah,” you muttered. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Bucky rolled his vibranium arm, cracking his neck. “Let’s move.”

No more talking. You followed them into the dark.

The fabric felt suffocating.

It had been years since you last wore a tactical suit—long enough that you should’ve forgotten how it felt. But the moment you zipped it up, that familiar weight settled on your chest, heavier than it used to be.

The holsters, the straps, the weapons—they all sat on your body like a ghost of the past, dragging you back to who you used to be.

Who you swore you wouldn’t be again.

Your grip tightened around the pistol in your hand. Your fingers twitched, muscle memory kicking in as you checked the slide, the safety, the magazine. It felt automatic. Too easy.

Too natural.

You shouldn’t be here.

The thought came out of nowhere, sharp and insistent.

You shouldn’t be here.

You closed your eyes for half a second, forcing yourself to breathe.

Inhale.

Exhale.

You barely registered Yelena’s voice in your ear. “We’re moving in ten. Get your head on straight.”

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

She didn’t notice anything off.

But Bucky did.

You felt his eyes on you before he even said anything.

“You good?” His voice was low, meant just for you.

You gritted your teeth. “Fine.”

Bucky didn’t buy it.

You could tell by the way his gaze lingered, scanning your posture, your hands, the way your breathing had gone uneven.

And just like that, your chest started to tighten.

The room suddenly felt too small, the weight of the suit pressing harder against your ribs, your lungs struggling to catch up—

No, no, not now.

You turned away, squeezing your eyes shut, trying to force it down.

But Bucky was already stepping closer.

He kept his voice steady. “Hey. You need to breathe.”

You swallowed hard, nodding, but the air still felt thick. Your hands clenched and unclenched as your pulse pounded in your ears.

Bucky didn’t push. Didn’t grab you. He just stood there, close enough to be an anchor but not enough to suffocate.

“Deep breaths,” he said quietly. “In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

You tried.

Tried to listen, tried to focus on the way his voice cut through the noise in your head.

After a few moments, the pressure in your chest started to ease.

Not gone. But manageable.

You let out a shaky breath, rolling your shoulders like it would help shake the feeling off.

Bucky studied you for another second before nodding. “Better?”

You exhaled. “Yeah.”

Yelena’s voice crackled through the comms. “We’re moving. Get your asses in gear.”

Bucky held your gaze for another second before he turned.

You stayed there a moment longer, flexing your fingers before gripping your gun again.

It felt different this time.

Because now, you knew that you weren’t ready for this.

The warehouse loomed ahead, its steel walls dull under the dim night sky. It was the kind of place that smelled like oil, rust, and bad decisions. Yelena was in front, scouting the perimeter with quick, precise movements. Bucky stuck to your right, silent but alert.

You kept your grip tight around your pistol, but the weight of it still felt wrong. Like you were holding something that no longer belonged to you.

Yelena’s voice came through the comms. “Four guards at the entrance. Two patrolling near the shipment.”

Bucky glanced at you. “Silent or messy?”

You forced yourself to focus. “Silent.”

Yelena’s smirk was audible. “Boring, but okay.”

You moved. Years away from this kind of work hadn’t erased your instincts. You slipped through the shadows, your footsteps soundless.

The first guard went down without a sound, your arm wrapped tight around his throat until he slumped against you. Bucky caught another, his vibranium arm clamping over the man’s mouth before he could make a noise.

Yelena took care of the other two with her knives, moving with an ease that made it look almost casual.

You adjusted your grip on your gun, signaling forward. The three of you pushed deeper inside. The warehouse was vast, rows of crates stacked high. Your objective was clear—retrieve the stolen vibranium and get out.

Simple.

Or at least, it should’ve been.

You rounded a corner and spotted the shipment. A metal crate, locked down with reinforced security measures. But it wasn’t unguarded.

Two men stood nearby, rifles slung across their backs. One of them was checking something on a tablet.

You should’ve waited. Should’ve assessed the situation, formulated a plan.

But something snapped.

Maybe it was the way the gun felt right in your hands, the rush of adrenaline flooding your veins.

Or maybe it was the months—years—of pretending you weren’t built for this.

Before either Yelena or Bucky could stop you, you stepped out of the shadows, raised your pistol, and fired.

One shot.

The first guard dropped.

The second one barely had time to react before you shot again, the bullet striking true.

Everything went still.

Yelena cursed. “What the hell—”

Before she could finish, an alarm blared.

You barely had time to process before Bucky was grabbing your wrist, his hand closing over the barrel of your gun, forcing it downward.

“What are you doing?” he hissed, his voice low but sharp.

For a second, you just stared at him.

His grip was firm but not crushing. His eyes searched yours, something unreadable flickering behind them.

You opened your mouth, but no words came out.

Because for a moment—a brief, fleeting moment—it was just the two of you.

No mission. No war.

Just his hand around your gun, grounding you.

Then Yelena snapped, “Incoming!” and the spell shattered.

Footsteps thundered against the concrete. More guards. Bucky let go, his expression unreadable. But you knew what he was thinking.

You were losing control.

And if you weren’t careful, this mission wouldn’t be your only mistake tonight.

No time to dwell. You reloaded your weapon, jaw tight.

“Сволочь.” (Jerk)

The second the alarm blared, the whole operation shifted from quiet extraction to get in, get out, and don’t die trying.

Yelena was already moving, ducking behind a crate as bullets sprayed in your direction. Bucky shoved you down just as a round barely missed your shoulder, embedding itself into the steel wall behind you.

“We need cover!” Yelena shouted.

You pushed off the ground, your pulse hammering. “We wouldn’t need cover if I—”

“Yeah, yeah, you screwed up,” Yelena cut in, already firing. “Save it for later!”

Bucky was already ahead, metal arm raised as he fired back at the incoming guards. “Move!”

You did.

It should’ve felt more familiar, more instinctive—but it didn’t. It felt reckless. It felt dangerous. And the worst part? Some part of you liked it.

You took the left flank, dropping low behind a stack of crates before popping up and taking your shots. Every pull of the trigger sent another guard collapsing.

Too easy.

Too familiar.

Too much like before.

Bucky reached the vibranium crate first, yanking at the security lock while Yelena covered him. You moved to back them up, but then—

“Y/N!”

You turned just as a guard charged, swinging the butt of his rifle toward your face.

Instinct kicked in.

You ducked, twisting his arm and slamming him hard into the wall. His head cracked against the metal with a sickening thud, and you didn’t even hesitate before delivering a sharp kick to his ribs, just to make sure he stayed down.

Something in you snapped.

The adrenaline. The fight. The feeling of being back in it.

It took over.

By the time the next guard reached you, you didn’t even raise your gun—you met him head-on, grappling with his rifle before yanking it free and slamming the stock into his throat. He choked, stumbling back, and you pressed forward, using your weight to drive him into the ground.

You didn’t stop.

Didn’t think.

You hit him again. Then again. Then—

A hand grabbed your wrist, yanking you back.

Bucky.

You struggled for half a second before realizing—his hand was tight around yours, but he wasn’t hurting you. Just stopping you.

“Enough.” His voice was low, steady, but there was something sharp behind it.

Your chest heaved. The room felt too loud, your pulse too fast.

For a second, you weren’t in the warehouse anymore.

You were back in that old mission, years ago—when you first realized HYDRA was behind everything. When the world collapsed beneath your feet. When you lost yourself.

Bucky’s grip stayed firm. His expression unreadable.

Yelena’s voice cut through the chaos. “We have the vibranium. Time to go!”

Bucky didn’t let go immediately.

Not until you nodded, your breath still shaky.

Then, wordlessly, he released you.

You didn’t look at him.

Couldn’t.

Because if you did, you’d see the thing you were trying to ignore—the thing you were trying not to be again. The three of you moved, slipping through the chaos and vanishing into the night. But even as you left the warehouse behind, the weight of what just happened followed you. You weren’t sure if you were going to be able to shake it.

The ride was silent at first.

You sat in the back, staring out the window as the darkened city streets blurred past. The weight of the mission still sat heavy in your chest—the rush of it, the violence, the way you lost yourself for a second.

You felt Bucky’s eyes flick toward you in the rearview mirror, but he didn’t say anything. Not yet. Yelena, on the other hand, wasn’t about to let the silence linger.

She let out a sharp exhale from the passenger seat, tossing her gloves onto the dashboard. “Okay. Debrief.”

You didn’t respond.

She turned slightly, looking at both of you. “We got the vibranium. That’s the good news.”

Bucky kept his eyes on the road. “Bad news?”

Yelena crossed her arms. “They definitely know we took it. Fontaine’s people are not gonna be happy.”

You scoffed under your breath. “When are they ever?”

Yelena gave you a look. “Not the point.”

You stayed quiet, staring at your hands. Your knuckles were still bruised. Your hands still remembered what you did back there.

Yelena must’ve noticed, because her tone shifted slightly. “What the hell happened back there, Y/N?”

You clenched your jaw. “I handled it.”

Bucky scoffed. “You lost it.”

That got you to look up. “Oh, don’t start with me, Barnes.”

“Start?” He shot you a sharp glance in the mirror. “You’re the one who nearly took that guy’s head off. That wasn’t handling it—that was something else.”

Your grip on your knee tightened. “He was trying to kill me. I did what I had to.”

“Yeah?” Bucky’s tone was flat, but there was something beneath it. “Then why did I have to pull you off him?”

Your chest tightened.

Yelena sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Alright, enough. We’re all alive, mission’s done—let’s just get back and figure out our next move.”

No one argued. But the weight of Bucky’s words sat heavy in the air, unspoken but there.

You stared out the window again. Head leaning back as your body now accepts that the fight is over, you can sit back and breathe.

The vibranium was gone. Safe.

Sam had taken care of the delivery back to Wakanda, ensuring it made its way into the right hands. It was out of your jurisdiction now—out of your hands.

But the guilt wasn’t.

You sat at the safe house, hands clasped together, elbows resting on your knees. The room was dimly lit, the low hum of a fan filling the silence. You should’ve felt relieved. Should’ve felt something.

Instead, all you could feel was the lingering weight of what happened back there.

You almost lost control.

Again.

The worst part? You weren’t sure if it was a mistake or if some part of you liked it.

A soft thud broke you out of your thoughts.

Yelena had dropped into the seat beside you, stretching her legs out like she wasn’t carrying the same exhaustion you were. She leaned back, arms crossed, watching you for a second.

You didn’t look at her.

She sighed, then nudged you with her elbow. “You gonna sit there all night, sulking?”

You exhaled slowly. “I’m not sulking.”

Yelena smirked. “You are.”

You shot her a look, but it didn’t last long. Eventually, your gaze dropped back down to your hands.

Silence stretched.

Then, softer, she said, “You did what you thought was right.”

Your stomach twisted.

“What if what I think is right isn’t?” you muttered.

Yelena tilted her head. “That’s a stupid question.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

She shrugged. “You did what needed to be done. And maybe it was messy. Maybe you almost lost your shit.” She nudged you again. “But you didn’t.”

You swallowed, jaw tight. “Bucky doesn’t think so.”

Yelena rolled her eyes. “Bucky is dramatic.”

That almost got a smirk out of you. Almost.

She sighed again, her voice quieter now. “I asked you for help because I knew you could do this.”

You glanced at her. Her expression was unreadable. Not pitying, not condescending—just honest.

“You’re here,” she continued. “That means something.”

You didn’t respond.

Because for the first time in a long time, you weren’t sure what you believed anymore.

But for now, you just let yourself sit there.

Let yourself breathe.

Yelena offered to drive you home. You shook your head.

“Walking seems more… healthy right now.”

She looked like she wanted to argue, but for once, she didn’t. Just gave you a knowing look before nodding.  “Fine,” she said, opening the car door. “Try not to get mugged.”

You snorted. “I’d like to see them try.”

Yelena smirked, but there was something softer behind her eyes. Something like don’t disappear again.

She didn’t say it. Didn’t need to.

Then she was gone, leaving you standing under the dull glow of a streetlamp, the city stretching ahead of you. So you walked.

It wasn’t about the distance. It wasn’t even about clearing your head. It was about breathing. About putting one foot in front of the other and reminding yourself that you were here.

That this was real.

That you had walked back into all of it the moment you showed up at Hill’s funeral.

It had started there.

Seeing old faces.

Hearing old voices.

Feeling the weight of a past you thought you’d buried pressing down on your shoulders again.

And then Tony had seen you. Disbelief written all over his face.

Yeah, well, I actually did.

You hadn’t planned on staying. You’d wanted to just be there, pay your respects, and leave. But then Sam had noticed you. Greeted you.

Sam… I mean, Cap.

And then Yelena.

No work?

As if you weren’t the biggest ghost in the room.

As if you hadn’t disappeared all those years ago because you couldn’t stomach the idea of fighting for the wrong side again.

Then Bucky had arrived, shaking hands with old teammates, the same man you had fought once without knowing who he really was. The same man you’d crossed paths with later—when he was in hiding, and you were trying to heal.

And then the HQ. The hesitation.

For Maria’s sake, Sam had said.

And somehow, you had ended up back at that bar, ordering an Old Fashioned, just trying to exist while ghosts of your past talked about missions, strategies, threats.

Then her name came up—Fontaine.

And suddenly, you weren’t just a face in the room anymore.

You were in it again.

And now, here you were.

Walking the streets of a city that had moved on without you, with bruised knuckles and a mind full of noise. You weren’t sure if you regretted it yet.

But you were sure of one thing—

You had never really left.

You were almost home. Almost.

The night air was cool against your skin, the streetlights humming softly above you. The walk had helped—at least a little. The weight in your chest hadn’t disappeared, but it felt a little less suffocating now.

Then you saw him.

And you cursed.

“Oh, for f—” You cut yourself off, pressing a hand to your forehead. “Seriously?”

Bucky stood near the entrance of your building, hands in his pockets, looking every bit like he hadn’t just been on a mission with you hours ago. Like he belonged there.

He lifted a brow at you. “Nice to see you too.”

You let out a slow breath, irritation settling in your bones. “Are you following me?”

“No.” He shrugged. “We just have really shitty luck.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s one way to put it.”

A beat of silence.

Bucky studied you, his expression unreadable.

Then—so casually it made you want to punch him—he asked, “You good?”

You barked out a dry laugh. “Do I look good, Barnes?”

He tilted his head slightly, gaze flicking over you, like he was actually considering it. “You look tired.”

You scoffed. “Great. Exactly the look I was going for.”

Another pause.

You should’ve walked past him. Should’ve gone upstairs, shut the door, and let the night end. But you didn’t.

Instead, you met his gaze, arms crossed, voice quieter this time.

“Why are you really here?”

Bucky exhaled.

“For the same reason you’re still standing here talking to me.”

You hated how much sense that made.

You stared at him.

For a second, the city felt quieter, the usual hum of distant traffic and late-night murmurs fading into the background. It was just you and him, standing under the streetlights, carrying different versions of the same weight. Bucky shifted slightly, his hands still in his pockets. His voice was lower this time, more careful.

“I just wanted to say sorry.”

That threw you off.

Your brows pulled together, skepticism creeping in. “For what?” His jaw tensed for a moment, like he had to force himself to say it.

“I get what you meant,” he said, eyes not leaving yours. “The other night. When you called me two-faced.”

You swallowed, not expecting him to actually bring that up. You had said it in the heat of the moment, bitter and frustrated, hurling words at him like knives.

He continued, gaze steady.

“You were right. I got out.” He inhaled, like the words were heavier than they should be. “And you didn’t.” Something in your chest twisted, sharp and deep.

You looked away, your arms tightening around yourself. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Yeah, you did.”

You huffed, shaking your head. “Fine. Maybe I did.”

Neither of you spoke for a moment.

Then, softer, you muttered, “I was just angry.”

“I know.” Bucky sighed, his stance shifting. “It’s not fair. Any of it.”

You scoffed. “No shit.”

Another silence.

Bucky hesitated before adding, “But you’re here now.”

You weren’t sure if that was supposed to be reassuring.

You looked back at him, studying his face—the exhaustion buried deep in his eyes, the kind that never really left. He understood. Maybe not in the exact same way, but he understood.

And somehow, everything about this man made sense.

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “Go home, Barnes.”

Bucky watched you for a second longer. Then, with a small nod, he took a step back.

And just like that, he was gone.

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