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trippinsorrows · 6 months ago

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looking through your eyes + thirty one

authors note: foreshadowing? planted seeds? twists? who knows.

cw/tw: angst, fluff, and drama

song inspo: ‘looking through your eyes’ by leann rimes

cast+ masterlist +story playlist + taglist request form

words: 12k

“You know we should probably be getting up soon.”

“Probably.”

Solana waits for him to move. He doesn’t, but neither does she. “Ro?”

“Hmm?”

“You haven’t moved.”

He makes a sound, hands shifting just a bit, clearly trying to be mindful of the Saniderm still covering one of her new tattoos. “Neither have you.”

Solana opens her mouth to protest, but she can’t, because he’s right. They’ve been in this position for a good hour now, him laying on top of her, in between her legs, hugging her, head resting comfortably on her chest as she plays with his hair that’s down, free, in its natural state.

It’s comfortable, to say the least. She enjoys being laid up with him, being close to him, but she also knows that they have a long day ahead of them, a day that can’t start as long as they’re still in bed together.

Even Dulce who snores quietly in her newest princess bed.

“True,” she agrees. “But, I can’t move unless you move, so….”

Roman grunts quietly, adjusting himself on top of her. “I’m not moving.”

“Ro…..”

“How have you been feeling?”

Somehow, Solana knows exactly what he’s referring to despite it being a general, almost vague question.

“The morning sickness has gotten a little better.” Thank God. That constant feeling of nausea as well as having to vomit every morning was becoming borderline unbearable. “No bleeding….” Her voice lowers. Solana doesn’t really like talking about that situation. Regardless of everything being, hopefully, okay now, it was still a terrifying experience that she’d rather not revisit.

And something tells her that her husband feels the same way.

“Good,” he murmurs, hand moving to the side of her, finger moving in absent, shapeless motions. When he says nothing, Solana finds herself giggling, small smile growing on her face.

“You’re really not gonna move, are you?”

A second of delay. Like he’s really considering it. Like he’s actually going to move. “Naw.”

Rolling her eyes, Solana once again is reminded that as big and strong as her husband can be, he most definitely has his “big baby” moments.

And speaking of baby….

“So, I’ve been thinking—”

“Yes?”

“Until we go public with the pregnancy, or start telling people, if I start to get sick—”

At that, he lifts his head, gaze focused on her. “Sick?”

“Morning sickness,” she clarifies, keeping her hand in his hair, her fingers massaging his scalp. “I need to be able to tell you without….ya know….telling you.”

He nods. “I agree.”

“So, I came up with something. At least…at least for tonight.” Because keeping this pregnancy a secret for at least the next 2 or 3 months will most likely continue to be a challenge that they have to navigate together. “If I sit on your lap—”

“I like it already.”

She rolls her eyes, ignoring his sly remark. “—and I squeeze your thigh—”

He makes a sound, dipping his mouth to kiss the top of her chest. “I really like that—”

“Then I’m starting to feel sick, and we need to leave.” She bites down on her bottom lip, suddenly unsure if what she’d come up with makes sense. “Is—is that okay?”

Roman chuckles. “Baby, you had me sold at sitting on my lap.” Of course, she did. “Are you sure you want to do this today?”

This refers to two things. One being meeting and speaking with her biological father, and the second being her informing the rest of her maternal family of their kinship.

She's nervous as shit about both, but she also knows that she needs to do this.

For herself.

"I am," she answers, nodding to herself. "I have to."

He doesn't say anything, and she's grateful. Grateful that even if he doesn't outright agree, he's still being supportive, because that's just who he is to her. A support system.

And it's one of the man reasons she loves him.

When the silence continues, Solana decides to switch gears a little. Take advantage of this time they have together. “Well, since you still haven’t moved….” Her voice is initially teasing before slipping into something more serious. “I know you don’t want me training during this pregnancy, and I agree, but I don’t—I don’t want to stop learning altogether.”

He sighs. “Solana—”

“I want to learn how to shoot,” she cuts him off, unsurprised when he lifts his head to look at her. “I’ve been texting Afia, and she—”

“Afia?” Finally, Roman sits up and moves off her, but it’s not for the reasons she was hoping. “Since when do you talk to her?”

“Ro…..” She’s careful with her words, trying to be respectful of Roman’s boundaries but also recognizing her autonomy. “She’s your brother’s wife. My sister-in-law….” Solana’s hand drops to her stomach. “Their kids will be the girls' cousins. If you….if you aren’t ready to try to build a relationship with Matteo, that….that’s fine, but—I like Afia. She’s nice, and we get along well. And she’s been going to the shooting range, and I wanna go with her.”

Roman looks away, and Solana readies to say something else, but she stops when she sees that he’s clearly deep in thought. Most likely trying to combat logic with emotion. Trying to find a balance between what he wants and what she wants.

“I don’t know, Sol. I don’t know her well enough to trust you with her.”

“That’s why you’ve gotta trust me,” is her soft response. Solana scoots over to him, holding onto his muscular arm. “Trust my judgment.” Eager to help him further consider her perspective, she points out, “not being able to train at all is going to be hard for me, Ro. I need something.”

It’s already been hard for her. Solana has gotten used to the routine and empowerment that comes with feeling herself grow stronger, psychologically and physically. And sure, once her pelvic rest restrictions are lifted, there’s a small chance she could continue to train, just in a different capacity. However, she doesn’t want to take any chances, and she knows Roman feels the same way.

Thus, this feels like an appropriate substitution. Because truth be told, being his wife, and not even knowing how to properly hold a gun, let alone use it, feels almost like a crime. Solana doesn't like weapons, especially guns, but it feels naive and almost irresponsible to not at least know how to use one.

Even if she prays that day never comes.

“What if I teach you?” He suddenly suggests, eyes almost hopeful. “If you want to learn, it should be from the best.”

Solana doesn’t doubt that. She’s heard people talk about as such. Not only does Roman excel at hand to hand combat, which she’s seen for herself, his aim is impeccable.

He never misses.

“I’d be okay with that,” she agrees, voice trailing. “But, I want to learn from Afia as well.”

He sighs. “Solana—”

“Just like training with a woman is different from training with a man, I think…I think learning how to shoot might be the same.” Perhaps. She’s not entirely certain, but it leads into her next point. “And, I would just feel better learning from the both of you.” She kisses his shoulder, a small smile forming on her face. “But, if it helps, I really want to learn the spear from you. Only you.”

Solana is relieved to see his small grin as well. “You still on that spear obsession?”

She pouts, defending herself. “It’s not an obsession. It’s just….it seems effective. Like…like a finishing move, almost.”

When coming from her husband, at least. She’s certain she could never inflict nearly as much damage as he could, largely because of the differing experience. Mostly because Roman is fucking huge.

Almost 300lbs of pure muscle coming at someone with all that weight and speed?

Yeah….recipe for disaster.

Or worse.

The thought pattern cause her to ask something she’d heard but hasn’t had a chance to inquire about. “Is it true you ruined someone’s career with a spear? Brock something?”

It’s not missed on her how he tenses a bit. “Yeah. Old college football rivalry that bled into the ring.” Roman scoffs, his hand moving to her knee, thumb caressing her skin. “I’ll admit. Fucker was the most physically challenging opponent I’ve ever faced.” Her eyes widen at that. Roman being challenged by anyone in that way seems and almost feels impossible. “We went at it a couple times, but the last one, I speared him, he went down badly on his right leg, the dominant one, and fucked it up real good. Ended any chance he had at going pro.”

Solana nods, taking it all in. “He wasn’t….he wasn’t in….ya know, the business?” For some reason, it feels almost strange asking about that. Asking about someone’s affiliation, membership, or lack thereof, in the crime world. Mostly because Solana was always left out of these conversations by Xavier, her preference at the time.

Not necessarily, anymore.

Roman scoffs, shaking his head. “He tried, but he was a dumbass farm boy who didn’t have the mental capability to make it or be successful." She winces, partially feeling bad.

Curious, Solana inquires, “whatever happened to him?”

Roman shrugs, answering, “last I heard he bought a shit ton of land and does farming. I don’t know beyond that, and I don’t really fucking care to be honest with you.” Fair and expected for her husband. “What I care about is you and keeping you safe.”

His smooth redirection back to the conversation at hand is impressive, but as is the case with most things Roman Reigns related. “I will be safe, Roman. I just….training also helps me to feel safe, so I need something else to help me with that in the time being.” And when he looks at her, partially concerned, she already knows what he’s thinking. “You always make me feel safe, Ro. The safest I’ve ever felt in my life, but I—I also need to be able to provide that for me. Learning how to fight and defend myself has been so good for me. Please….please let me keep it going.”

Solana watches and waits quietly, allows and prays her words settle into her overprotective husband. She can understand why this could be hard for him, but she hopes his faith and trust in her overpowers any mistrust he might have in Afia.

“Alright,” he acquiesces. “If this is really what you want—”

“It it,” she speaks up, excitement growing at the possibility of his approval. “It really is.”

He runs his hands through his hair. “Then you can do it.” Solana giggles and holds his arm, hugging him. “But, I want Bautista with you at all times—”

“Of course.” An easy thing to agree to, Solana readying to ask Roman why and if Solo will ever return to being included in her personal security detail when he transitions the topic.

“Since we’re talking about shit…” Roman moves off the bed, Solana frowning and watching him walk over to his dresser. He opens up the top drawer, pulling out two letters that she focuses on as he climbs back on the bed. Handing them both to her, she reads her name on both letter as he shares, “these are for you….”

The confusion grows, weighing down her furrowed brows. “What—what are they?” Her question is premature as she notices the sender.

Pacific Life

Her frown deepens.

“What…..”

Roman nods gently. “Open em’.”

Solana still has so many questions, but they’re questions that clearly can only be answered by opening said letters.

And, that’s exactly what she does.

Solana has always been a quick reader, so it doesn’t take long for her to come to some level of understanding. Pacific Life is clearly a life insurance company, and said letters both say the exact same thing, with the main difference being the names listed on each.

One is Xavier Miller, and the other is Wesley Miller.

And both include checks.

“Oh my God…..” Solana’s hand slaps over her mouth, her eyes widening as she takes in the amount. The same on both checks.

$15,000,000.00

Wide eyes darting up to her husband, she drops her hand, mouth ajar. “I dont…..what?”

Roman moves his hand to her cheek, voice as gentle as his gaze. “I settled Xavier’s debts to keep them from coming after you—”

Solana’s stomach flips. “Roman—”

“And clearly, Xavier had Wes as his beneficiary for his life insurance policy and vice versa for Wesley. With them both dead and you last of kin, that makes you the beneficiary of both policies."

Nothing he’s saying is any different from what’s included in both letters outside of Roman paying off Xavier’s debt, something she both hates and loves. Hates her husband did anything for that man but recognizes and loves that he did it for her, did it to keep those debts from being sacked onto her.

But, regardless, there’s something so mind-blowing about opening two letters and finding oneself is now thirty million dollars richer.

“I don’t—I can’t—” Her words are choppy, similar to her many, fleeting thoughts. “I don’t want anything from them.”

Roman sighs, his response calm and supportive. “I figured you’d say that, and I respect it. I’ll respect whatever you decide to do.” It’s obvious there’s more, that he has additional thoughts, thoughts that he goes on to share. “But Sol, they put you through hell. You deserve this and so much more. It doesn’t change what happened, but maybe with this, you can do something good.”

Solana listens to him. Listens to the valid points he makes. This money most definitely doesn’t take back any of the horrors she experienced at the hands of those men, but the money….the money could be used for something, as Roman pointed out, good.

A thought crosses her mind, as she suggests almost tentatively, “Like starting a college fund for the girls?”

Roman’s smile is small and slightly amused. “I don’t think we need to worry about paying for college, Sol.”

Fair. Sometimes, Solana forgets her husband is an actual billionaire.

A similar thought arises. "Or what about my schooling?"

"No." He shoots that down almost immediately. "I'm paying for that for you." Which makes sense, yes, but if she can afford it now with all this money, why not?

Roman shakes his head. “Just take some time and think about it,” his encouragement is gentle. “That and what you want to do with the house, too….”

Her eyebrows furrow. “The house?” Roman says nothing, but the way his expression softens almost sympathetically is all the answer she needs.

“Oh…..”

The house she grew up in. The house that holds so many memories. Good. Bad. Some unidentifiable space in between.

Yeah... she most definitely has to think about that.

“Okay.” A quiet, single word of agreement. Roman leans forward and kisses her temple, his hand settling over her stomach.

His conciliatory touch is conjoined with a gentle, “let’s get ready.”

—----

The meeting with Darnell takes place at a restaurant. One Roman had cleared out just for this reason. A meeting she's instantly regretting the moment she walks in, her husband close by her side.

Her eyes land on the table where the other man sits, nervously bouncing his leg up and down. She takes a brief second to search his face, searching for any signs of similarities.

Nothing stands out to her.

And when they're close enough to him, Darnell also stands up and sets his focus on her, his eyes widening and instantly softening as he takes her in, studying her from top to bottom. Solana diverts her gaze and unconsciously leans into Roman’s solid, protective frame.

“Wow….” He finally speaks, volume barely above a whisper. “You….you look so much like her.”

Solana says nothing. What once would be considered a compliment is now a thing that only further confuses her muddled emotions.

He moves to take a step forward, but Roman is already on it. “That’s fucking close enough.”

It’s appreciated, the parameters being set for her as Solana continues to go back and forth with herself regarding if this was a good idea or not.

The answer changes from moment to moment.

Disappointment flashes in his face, but he says nothing, simply nodding as he retakes his seat.

It’s only then Solana speaks again, not to her biological father, but to her husband. Turning around, having to remind herself to be mindful of her interactions with him, she simply states, “I’m okay.”

Roman’s fierce gaze switches from Darnell to herself. An unspoken ‘are you sure?’. She nods, smile small but voice firm. “I’ll be okay.”

Bloodline security surrounds the place. Bautista is right outside the door. Darnell would have to be an idiot to try anything.

Especially with Roman present.

Roman’s disagreement is noticeable, Solana opting to place her hand on his chest, quietly repeating, “I’ll be okay.”

And it’s on this final reiteration that it locks and settles in for him. Roman gives her a small nod of acknowledgement, then turns his icy stare on Darnell, an unspoken threat and promise of violence should he try anything.

“I’ll be outside,” Roman informs. She offers him a final, small smile before he disappears, leaving her alone with Darnell.

Solana takes a deep breath and sits down in the chair opposite him. She doesn’t say anything, and neither does he. Not for a good five minutes at least.

“How?” It’s a practical whisper followed up with a firmer, “how did you find out?”

Solana looks away, partially unsure why eye contact is so difficult. “I found…I found a letter she wrote me explaining….explaining things.” She’s tempted to say everything but ultimately decides against it, as everything has not been explained, hence why she’s sitting across from the man in front of her.

He nods, eyes searching and studying her. “What—what exactly did she tell you?”

A lot. So much. More than one person should have to process and deal with at any given time.

Still, Solana does her best to answer his questions, despite the fact that she only asked for this meeting so she could ask her questions. “How….how she met…..Xavier. How…how she met you…..the….the plan—”

“To leave, right?” All she can do is nod, finally looking over at him to see the devastation painted all over his face. “I never—I never found out…how….how he learned of the plan—”

One of her questions suddenly answered without her even asking. It’s not, however, the answer she was looking for. Granted, it’s obvious someone betrayed them. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that much.

“I have to admit. This….this isn’t how I imagined this conversation going.” A quiet admission filled with undeniable sadness and regret.

Curious, Solana inquires, “how—how did you think it would go?”

He shakes his head. “Not like this.”

Silence

"I've waited....waited so long to meet you, to meet my daughter—"

"Please—please don't call me that." A whispered request, one that makes his countenance dim but something needs. It's bad enough she already feels unwell about this whole thing but him referring to her as that, even if true, it just....it feels too soon.

Continued silence until he speaks again, shattering it.

“Solana…..” He leans forward, elbows on the table. “I—” He stops, pulling out his phone, clicking around, turning it so she can see. One look at the screen, and Solana knows right away what she’s looking at.

Who she’s looking at.

The resemblance is strong and striking. The same smile. Same brown eyes they clearly inherited from her mother. Similar complexions.

This is her brother.

“This….this is Shawn,” she lifts her gaze from the phone to Darnell who wears a small smile. “This is your brother.” Her eyes shut, as he continues to explain what she most definitely has not asked about. “He’s in his second year of residency. Working to become a pediatrician. He just got engaged—”

And because she can’t take it, can’t hold it in any longer, Solana asks. Has to ask. “Where were you?”

If she was looking at him, she’d see the quick and unmistakable way his smile shifts back into a frown. “What?”

From some place, a place unknown, Solana starts to find her voice. Starts to tap into the reasons and emotions that drove her to schedule this meeting in the first place. “You—you knew about me, right?”

There’s an undeniable sadness in his eyes. “From the moment your mother told me about the pregnancy.”

For some reason, that doesn’t help her to feel any better. To settle the influx of emotions rising within her. “And you—you knew that—that the plan failed, that….that she was killed.”

His eyes shut, and he looks away. A quiet, pained, “yes.”

“But that….that I survived, that….that I was still with him, in that—in that house.” Emotion betrays her, stirring and rising, resulting in choppy sentences that somehow manage to alert the man across from her just where she’s going with this.

“Solana—”

“So where were you all these years?” A devastating question that needs, deserves, an answer. “Where have you been?” Betrayal paints her face as she issues her next icy question. “Or were you too busy being a dad to the child you wanted?”

There's a good, solid minute of absolute silence as Darnell clearly works to choose the right words.

“Solana, I always wanted you. There hasn’t been a day that’s gone by in all these years that I haven’t thought about you, thought about trying to get you, but…..sweetheart.” Solana's nails scrape against the table. Something about that nickname doesn't settle right with her. “There was no way for me to try to take you from him that didn’t put you in danger. If he found out who I was, about me, he’d have no doubt either killed me or you. And then what?” A rhetorical question as he shakes his head. “I couldn’t save you without risking—”

“So you just left me there with that monster—”

“I didn’t have a choice, Solana—” His voice is desperate, eyes pleading. “I—I always hoped he would marry you off to someone, and then maybe I could reach out, and he did, but it was to that other monster Roman—”

And that is when Solana's anger reaches a dangerous level.

Her voice is unwavering and borderline threatening. “Don’t you dare talk about my husband.” She points to the door. “He is the first and only man in my life to not hurt me. To protect me. He protects me the way you should have—”

“Solana—”

“But, you didn’t. You left me to the real monster, and then you want to show up after all these years, showing me pictures of the sibling that I never knew I had, the sibling who I’m sure you gave a good life to, meanwhile, I spent over twenty years in hell—”

“Sol—”

“Do you know how bad it was for me?” Her throat is heavy and chest feels weighed down. “The things—the things they did to me—” Solana's voice breaks. “The things he let people do to me—”

“Sweetheart...." To be fair, Darnell looks sympathetic, but his explanations somehow contrasts that. Seems invalidating. Justifying. "I couldn’t risk losing you, too." He closes his eyes and shakes his head. "If I tried to take you from him, he would have killed y—"

“Being dead would have been better than being in that house!” It’s a dark, heavy thing to say, but it’s how she feels. Or, maybe it’s how she feels in this moment. To be fair, she’s feeling a lot of things. A lot of confusing, conflicting, overwhelming things. It’s too much.

This is all too much.

She thought she was ready. She wanted to be ready, but it’s evident by the way her face is warming up and her chest is tightening that she was wrong.

“I can’t do this,” she finally announces. Solana looks over at Darnell whose shoulders drop at her exclamation. “I—I can’t do this right now.”

Solana moves to stand up, but so does he. He also reaches across the table, his hand just centimeters away from touching her. “Solana, please—”

“I—I can try on a different date, but—but—this—it’s too—it’s too much.” She shakes her head, closing her eyes and forcing herself to take a deep breath. It’s only then she recognizes where this is headed. She’s on the path to a panic attack, and for so many reasons, primarily the two lives growing inside of her, she has to get the hell out of dodge.

Darnell circles around the table and finally makes contact, grabbing her forearm. Solana is taken back by the fact that she doesn’t panic or jump at the action, that him touching her doesn’t elicit another layer of anxiety.

Still, she requests, “let me go.”

His voice is dripping with desperation. “Ten minutes. I’m just asking for ten—”

“—let me go.”

“—please. I’ve waited for so long—”

“Let me go.”

“—if you—”

“Roman!”

It practically defies logic and the science of how time works, because one minute she’s shouting for her husband, a natural thing that comes to her in the space of this fear, and the next, he’s back in the room, roughly barking at her father to get away from her. Solana reaches for Roman, grabbing his arm, redirecting his attention back to her instead of Darnell who’d stepped back, hands up in a defensive manner.

“I just wanna leave,” she whispers, Roman moving his hands to her face, clearly assessing for any sign of injury. “P–please.”

Roman nods, ushering her out of the restaurant, but not before he issues a cold, steel warning to Darnell.

“Stay the fuck away from her.”

Solana doesn’t know if she agrees with that. If she wants, overall, for Darnell to leave her alone. There’s still so much for them to discuss, but as of right now, mentally, it’s not something she’s ready for. Not something she can handle. So, for now, distance is the best thing.

Only time will tell if that changes.

—-------

Solana is dangerously close to calling off the whole thing. From backing away from the plan to inform the rest of Bayley/her family of the kinship. The meeting with Darnell messing with her so much that Roman has to stay with her for the rest of the afternoon given her spiked anxiety. He’d asked if she needed him to call Gayle for an appointment, but she turned it down, leaning on her coping skills learned in therapy as well as his support.

She’s not entirely sure what she expected to hear or how the meeting would go, but her reaction and how deeply it impacted her definitely took her by surprise. And, if she’s being completely honest with herself, anxiety isn’t the only emotion that came out of that meeting.

Jealousy.

Jealousy is something she also left with, jealousy that a sibling, her twin, of all people got to live a normal life. Probably got to do all of the normal things that kids should be able to do. Darnell probably taught him how to ride a bike.

Xavier once pitched hers into the street and rolled it over in front of her because she didn’t clean the house “good enough.”

He probably got to have playdates with friends.

Solana went to maybe one or two, each one ending with Xaxier screaming at and beating her mom for allowing her to do so.

He probably went to homecoming and prom.

Solana spent both of those in the ER from injuries sustained from Xavier and Wes’s beatings.

He’s a doctor.

Solana is just going for her bachelors at 29.

There’s just so much unfairness. Her twin lived the best life while she was stuck in the depths of hell.

And no, it’s not his fault, because he was a child just like her. But, that doesn’t take away from the fact that she’s jealous that this sibling received the life she deserved and angry at her father for not saving her and giving her that same kind of life.

“Hey.” Bayley’s kind voice and soft voice pull Solana from her inordinate thoughts. “You still thinking about that meeting?”

Solana nods. Hard not to. “It just….it wasn’t what I hoped it would be.”

Bayley presses her lips together before offering. “I get that, and I hate that for you, too, but just because that didn’t go well, doesn’t mean that this won’t.” She places down the brush she was using to set Solana’s face with powder. “Solana…” Bayley joins their hands, eye contact unwavering. “You are family. They’re not going to be upset or deny you or turn you away. They’ll have questions, maybe, sure. But, it’s not going to be this massive, hurtful thing. If I had any feeling it would be anything but accepting, I would be trying my damn hardest to talk you out of this. But, I don’t, so I’m not.” Bayley lifts one hand to touch up an unruly strand that’s shifted from the bangs she cut for her cousin not even an hour earlier. "Everything's going to be okay.”

The words are helpful. Immensely. And so greatly appreciated. More than Bayley could ever know. Especially following the day Solana has had.

“Thank you,” she whispers. Solana also manages a smile. “It—it means a lot to me.”

Bayley makes a sound. “Don’t mention it, prima.” Bayley grabs the brush once more, dusting it over Solana’s nose before assessing her work. “I must say, while the canvas is breathtaking, I do some damn good work.” She steps to the side allowing Solana a final view of the finished product. “What do you think?”

Solana thinks and feels a lot of things looking at her reflection.

Different.

It looks and feels like a different person. The bangs framing her forehead, brushing the top of her eyebrows and somehow highlighting the beautiful gold eye look Bayley did for her. Bayley’s magic continues and spreads from the highlight atop her cheek, the red lipstick on her full lips, even to the red, floral dress Solana is wearing. Initially something she thought a bit too revealing but something her cousin talked her into.

The emotion is undeniable as she finds herself almost unable to look away from herself. “I love it.” She turns to Bayley, standing up from the chair and pulling her in for a hug. “Thank you.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll invoice that rich ass husband of yours.” Bayley’s comments makes Solana laugh and helps her to push back the tears. She can’t ruin this stunning face. “Speaking of….”

The two break apart, and Solana sets her gaze on her husband who’s just walked in.

Naturally, she studies the way his eyes widen slightly when he sees her. “Damn…”

Giggling, Solana walks over to him and moves her hands to his chest, asking almost nervously, “do you like it?”

She hadn’t told him about the plan to modify her dyed hair yet again by cutting bangs, wanting to surprise him. He just thought she was going to Bayley’s salon for the two to get ready together. And while that definitely happened, this happened as well.

“I love it,” he finally answers, his eyes sweeping her over. “You look beautiful, Sol.” It doesn’t matter how many times he says it, it never gets old. Never fails to make her heart swell and stomach flutter.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, and turns her head when he goes to kiss her, reminding with a giggle, “don’t mess up my makeup!”

He makes a sound and kisses her neck, murmuring, “I’d mess up a hell of a lot more if I could.” His big hand snakes down to grab her ass, prompting her to lightly push on his chest.

“Behave,” she scolds, unable to deny there’s a part of her that feels the same. Pelvic rest is absolutely necessary, at least for another week or two, but the lack of that type of intimacy between them, the inability to have it has been….something, to say the least.

Needing a distraction, she turns to Bayley while speaking to Roman. “She did an amazing job, didn’t she?”

However, it’s only then Solana sees the way Bayley rolls her eyes, not at her statement, but at Roman who is also now looking with utter boredom.

Shoulders dropping, Solana realizes it’s time to address this issue.

“Guys.” She pulls away from Roman, crossing her arms over her body. “This has to stop.” She looks between them. “I love you both, and I know—I know what happened was hard, and I’ll never stop being sorry for putting you two in that position, but—” She looks at Roman, “Bayley is my cousin,” she then switches her gaze to Bayley, “Roman is my husband.” She shakes her head, asserting, “neither of those facts are going to change. Ever. So, I want, I need you two to drop this. I need us all to be family.” Realizing that may be too much, at least for now, she compromises, “at least be cordial.” An assessing gaze between the two of them reveals some crumbling of steel resolve, prompting her to pull out that card. “For me?”

That does it, both Bayley and Roman looking away, revealing her final play’s success. “Fine.” Bayley is the first to speak. “I’ll try to be nicer to him.”

Roman looks like he’s almost in physical pain as he forces out a steel, “same.”

Bayley scoffs. “Like you know how to be nice to anyone other than Sol—”

“Don’t fucking push it—”

“Guys,” Solana cuts in, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Please.”

Muttered, reluctant ‘sorry' from both of them as she shakes her head. There’s still a ways to go, but it’s a start.

One issue tackled. Sort of.

Another major one left to go.

—------

Sitting in front of them shouldn’t be so intimidating. Shouldn’t have her tapping her foot on the floor, her attention briefly diverting to thoughts of Roman. To wondering if she should have had him stay instead of standing outside. Solana does her best to remind herself of why she initially told him that. She can do this and is capable, and she doesn’t need her husband right beside her to feel his support.

Especially when she’s got Bayley right next her.

“Thank you for—for meeting with me.” The second meeting of the day, this one, hopefully, going much better than the one from earlier. “I—I don’t know how much Bayley told you.”

Juanita offers a small smile. “Just that you needed to speak with us about something….in private.” She gestures around the vacant restaurant, the only other bodies present are the ones back in the kitchen, preparing for the night’s event.

Santos says nothing, his gaze watchful and studying. Bayley’s recommendation for him to be included and invited to this “reveal” was something she was unsure about, Roman definitely against, but something she eventually agreed to given Bayley’s valid points. He’s technically Solana’s cousin too, Melina’s partner and the father of their child, not to mention the tension that exists between him and Roman. With all the connections they share, prior to even officially meeting, it makes sense to start easing into that transition now.

And truth be told, from the moment Santos walked into the restaurant and shook her hand and just from the little she’s seen, Solana can see why he and Roman don’t get along. It’s probably the same reason Roman is indifferent, borderline hostile to his brother.

They’re too much alike.

Santos exudes a strong, commanding, almost mysterious presence similar to her husband. But, there’s that almost charismatic element to him that reminds her of Matteo.

She can only hope the three of them being under the same roof tonight won’t bring about anything bad.

Returning to the conversation at hand, at Juanita’s statement, Solana nods and nervously clears her throat. “I’m sorry if it was any inconvenience—”

“Not at all,” Bernardo dismisses with a wave of his hand. “We are curious what this is about though.”

A fair statement. One Solana knows only she can handle.

She takes a deep breath. “I—I love to write. I—I always have. It’s—it’s something I inherited from my mother. We used to—we used to write to each other all the time.” Solana prepares to take another deep breath when Bayley places a comforting hand on her knee. Solana offers a small, appreciative smile.

It’s the subtle, non-verbal reminder she needs.

She nods to herself. “It’s—it’s a long story, but I was….I was sorting through her journals and putting them away in my library at my home, and I—I came across a letter she wrote me before—” Emotion catches her, Solana’s voice wavering slightly. “Before she was killed.”

Her fingers taps against the exposed skin on her thigh, as if going to reach for the letter. A letter she opted to not share in its entirety. Just the portions that confirm her mother’s true identity.

Solana then moves to grab the papers out of her purse, handing them over. In a low voice, she directs, “you—you can read for yourselves.”

All three wear confused expressions, but Bernardo is the one to accept the two pages, Santos and Juanita nearing closer to also gain visual access.

Meanwhile, Solana goes to pick at the material of her dress when Bayley shifts her hand, placing it over hers. Another nod of support, her warm brown eyes converting every bit of, “it’s going to be okay.”

Solana squeezes her hand, telling herself the same thing.

It’s going to be okay.

A minute or two passes before the first sound of response.

“Mio Dios…..” It’s Bernardo, and he has a closed fist covering his mouth as his wide, emotional eyes lift to Solana. “You’re Alma’s daughter?”

Juanita gasps, eyes watering. “She had a child?”

Santos looks between her and the letter, as if trying to make the connection. “How? Is it—is it just you? Are there any other children she had?”

It’s difficult to breathe, let alone respond, but Solana finds it in her to do so. “I—I apparently have a twin brother—” More gasps of shock, as she explains, “I don’t—I didn’t know until the letter. There’s a lot more in there, and it’s all so confusing, and I know it’s a lot just what you read, so if you need time—”

“No.” Again, Bernardo is the one to speak, his tone firmer. “For years, we’ve wondered what happened to my niece. Ricardo—he died of a broken heart after losing your mother, he died not knowing what happened to his only daughter. We’ve all lived with that grief, and now here you are, have been here all this time….” He stops, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry we didn’t—we couldn’t do anything to help her. To help you.”

It’s an unexpected ending that has her eyes watering. Solana replies with just as much emotion. “You—you didn’t know.”

“But, we know now,” Juanita says, wiping at her eyes. “And now that we have you, that we know who you really are….” She stops, laughing a little, “well, I can’t even call you newfound family, cause you’ve already become that for us.” Solana sniffles, not even realizing she herself has started crying. Juanita's eyes widen as she looks over at her husband. “Paloma—”

He closes his eyes, going to speak again. “Your grandfather, my brother, is no longer with us, but his widow is. Paloma—”

“I know,” Solana interrupts in a quiet voice, unsurprised at their shocked expressions. “My–my husband took me to Isla Mujeres for my birthday a couple months ago, and I—I actually met her.” Her voice breaks again, Solana blotting at her eyes as Bayley hugs her from the side. “I—I haven’t told her because—because I’m scared, and I—I didn’t know if you guys would accept me or believe me.”

“Accept you?” Bernardo echoes. Solana watches as he stands up from his chair and walks over, extending a hand. Unconsciously, she stands up, Bayley releasing her, as Solana accepts it. He gives a small squeeze. “Solana, you are family. My great niece. Mi familia.”

What happens next is unexpected, and months prior, could have easily sent Solana spiraling and triggered the absolute hell out of her.

Bernardo pulls her into a hug, holds her, his hand cradling the back of her head. And Solana doesn’t panic, doesn’t freeze, doesn’t feel triggered. She feels safe. The comforting, almost parental, fatherly embrace is all so unfamiliar but nice.

It’s such an interesting dichotomy. With Darnell, Solana found explanations. With Bernardo and company, she’s finding empathy. Sympathy. And it’s not really until this moment that she’s realizing maybe she wasn’t looking for answers from her biological father as much as she was looking for comfort. For validation.

For this.

Pulling away, she wipes at her eyes, laughing when Juanita pulls her into a hug that’s even tighter.

Motherly.

Releasing her, Juanita blots at Solana’s eyes as Santos crosses his arms, taking in the sight.

“So, the great Solana Reigns all my family kept raving about is actually also family,” he says with a small chuckle. Solana turns to him, lips pressed together, listening and watching closely. “Well, welcome to the Escobar family.” His eyes narrow just a bit. “You know what this also means, right?”

“No.” Solana gasps, turning around to see her husband whose intense gaze is on Santos, Bayley standing not too far behind him with her arms crossed. She'd clearly went to get him, to invite him back inside. “Tell me.”

Naturally, Solana walks over to Roman, holding onto his arm, his gaze never once leaving Santos.

Bayley's cousin, err, Solana’s cousin, however, doesn’t even bother to look Roman’s way. “You’re an Escobar. That means you're under the protection of the Legado Del Fantasma. The Cartel as well.”

Solana frowns. She’s heard through Bayley and even brief mentions from Jimmy and Jey about the Legado Del Fantasma, but the Cartel? That’s…..news to her, to say the least. But juxtaposed to her confusion is Roman’s anger.

Solana has to subtly tighten her grip on his arm as he moves forward, growling, “Solana is Bloodline.”

“She’s Bloodline by marriage,” Santos corrects, swiftly. “She’s Del Fantasma by blood.”

Bayley steps forward, breaking her silence and also the pending standoff. “So basically, Solana has protection on both sides. Through family and marriage."

It’s such a strange thing. To go from being unprotected and subjected to all kinds of horrors for years into this space where the protection is abundant. Being told she is under the protection of two of the most feared crime syndicates in this hemisphere, maybe the world, is….something, to say the least.

“She doesn’t need your protection,” Roman cuts in, his voice steel, Solana wishing she could do more to comfort and calm him right now. “I don’t need anyone’s help to keep my wife safe.”

Thankfully, the role of peacemaker is taken up by her tía.

Juanita speaks up. “Let us not do this right now. This is a happy occasion. I won’t have it ruined by ego and pride.” She looks between Roman and Santos. “We will have a nice, celebratory night.”

It’s the ‘celebratory’ that reminds Solana of her stipulation, if you will. “I—I’d prefer this…this stay between us.” She motions around the room, adding, “until I—I can tell Paloma.”

Bernardo nods, agreeing. “It shall remain between us, sobrina nieta.”

The term. Great niece. It warms Solana’s soul, returns the smile on her face.

Familia.

Family.

—--------

Roman feels out of place.

Truth be told, he’s always felt a bit out of place. But, especially in this setting, because as guests arrive and as Solana socializes and speaks with what she now knows to be her family, he just sits at the table, watching and surveying. A normal thing for him, especially considering none of these people are his friends and family.

Except then Jimmy and Naomi arrive, Naomi invited by Bayley and Jimmy naturally tagging along. And that initial exchange is awkward, but Jimmy reminds Roman that while he has his moments, he knows when to leave shit at the door.

“I know a lot is going on, but tonight ain’t about that.” Was Jimmy’s “surrender” statement of the evening.

Before he went to go see what food he was ordering.

Some things never change.

Regardless, Roman feels a bit better seeing Dwayne, is slightly surprised to see Ava, who’d he previously spoken to and settled his issues with regarding her interference. But, it’s when Matteo arrives with his wife and children that it really hits Roman.

Two boys and a little girl. His biological niece and nephews. And Roman hasn’t a single fucking clue how to feel about that, doesn’t know what to feel seeing the way Matteo is attentive to both his wife and kids while still maintaining that dangerous aura about him.

He smiles and even laughs with his little girl, slaps his wife’s ass, and high fives his sons all while never coming across as weak.

He balances it all so well from the outside looking in, something Roman feels at a complete loss to.

Especially as he watches his wife. Solana, kind and loving, is all smiles and laugh. Matteo’s children seem to naturally gravitate to her, same with the other children in attendance. Like Melina and Santos son. Another business man who manages to tend to his family while maintaining his reputation.

Meanwhile, Roman can’t even think about fatherhood without feeling all fucking weird.

It’s miserable.

And, it’s not even just them, even fucking Jimmy is going around the restaurant calling people “cousin this” and “tia that.” People he met less than an hour ago. Is singing some Selena song on karaoke with Bayely and Solana even though he doesn't know a lick of Spanish and sounds like Lucille fucking Ball.

Still, he just blends.

They all do.

Jimmy.

Matteo.

Dwayne and Ava even, striking up conversations with people.

And Roman is just…..there.

And that’s when the overthinking hits him. Is this how it’s going to be for him as a father? This emotionally unavailable person who can’t even connect with people on a basic level. Who has to rely and depend on his wife to fulfill his kids; emotional needs, cause Lord knows he can’t.

Solana even tries to get him to dance with her, comes to sit on his lap and talk with him for a few minutes. And he declines in the subtle way he must use to avoid giving off any indication of what she means to him. And she understands, he knows she does, but it doesn’t make him feel any better.

Especially when he sees Matteo dancing with his wife, sees Solana playfully interacting and dancing with his biological niece. People she just fucking met and is already almost bonded with.

Something Roman is starting to think he can never have or achieve.

Even with his own children.

Stepping away is a bit of necessity. He needs to not be surrounded by it all, by the taunts and reminders.

Reminders of what he can never have.

Roman stands outside, in the back patio portion of the restaurant, leaning against the brick wall, thoughts all over the damn place.

“I know your ass is getting old, and I’m just over the hill, but even I know all the fun is happening inside.”

Dwayne’s voice, playful and teasing, pulls Roman from his thoughts as he looks over at his cousin who sports a beer in one hand.

Roman chuckles, looking off over the terrace. “You know this isn’t my setting.”

“And yet you’re still here,” Dwayne assesses, knowingly. He steps closer, asking, “why?”

An easy answer. “You really think I was about to let her be here by herself? Around Escobar?”

That’s another thing sitting on and weighing on him. He’s happy Solana has discovered her family. She deserves that. He’s just unsure how he feels about Solana suddenly belonging to and, rightfully, having protection from an organization he can’t control.

He’d heard whispers that Legado Del Fantasma was rooted in the Cartel, that there were connections there, some even being through Santos father. But, the Cartel has always been notorious about keeping identities for certain factions and members a secret. Helps them keep an advantage.

Similar to the Bloodline.

But, hearing it confirmed is something different, and Roman is now wishing he’d have not pushed off those meetings with Cartel representatives to see about forming an alliance or something of the sort.

It sure as hell would be helpful right about now.

Dwayne makes a face. “According to Jimmy, that’s her family though.”

At that, Roman’s gaze hardens. “What?”

Dwayne chuckles, taking a sip of his beer. “Don’t worry. He told me not to tell anyone.”

“I’m trying to figure out how the fuck he kn—” Roman stops himself, pinching his nose. It’s always something. “Yes, turns out Solana and Bayley are—”

“Cousins, right?”

Ava’s voice cuts in at the same moment Roman’s blood pressure skyrockets.

“How the fuck do you know?” He asks, already knowing the damn answer.

Ava shrugs, also with a beer in hand. “Jimmy.” Roman looks away, absolutely needing to count to ten to keep from killing his damn cousin. “But, don’t worry, he told me—”

“Not to tell anyone. Yeah, I know.” Roman runs his hand over his face, needing to count to ten, something Lita had brought up to help when his anger starts to rise. It sounded stupid as hell at the time but may be necessary at this moment.

This is why he fucking hates people.

Ava rolls her eyes. “Look, I’m only out here cause Solana asked me to check on you.”

Dwayne makes a sound. “She asked me, too.”

Hearing that somehow calms Roman a bit, reminds him of why he needs to get his shit together. For Solana. Tonight is supposed to be about and for her. She doesn’t need to be worrying about him, especially in her condition.

“I’m fine.”

“Bullshit,” Ava and Dwayne say in sync. Roman rolls his eyes. The two of them at one time is a kind of stressor he doesn’t need right now. He appreciates them both, but he’ll always appreciate solitude more.

Especially when he needs to think.

Especially….especially when he doesn't have Fetu to talk to any more.

“Just thinking about shit,” is the answer Roman settles on. It’s not very telling. At all. But, it’s an answer nonetheless.

“Well, can’t say we didn’t try.” Ava shrugs, sipping more of her beer as she lowers her voice. “Hey, what’s the update on the…..ya know?”

No. Roman doesn’t know, and he asks as such. “What?”

Ava sucks her teeth and punches him on the arm. “Don’t be a dumbass. You know what I’m talking about.” His face must indicate his continued confusion as she murmurs something in Samoan. “For Solana?”

At the same time, both Dwayne and Roman are clued in.

“Oh shit, yeah,” Dwayne says first, rolling his shoulders. “You still gotta let me know the dress code.”

“Anything but white. Duh.” Ava suddenly second guesses herself, looking over at Roman for approval. “Right?”

Roman’s answer is multifaceted. “I don’t know.” And before his annoying ass cousins can get on his ass, he clarifies. “I don’t—I don’t know if I’m still doing it.”

Both wear shocked expressions, but Dwayne is the first to comment. “The fuck you mean you’re not doing it? You have to, brother.”

Ava’s expression softens. “Roman, you know….you know it’s what Fetu would want.”

Roman looks away, knowing. Knowing that Ava is right. Fetu was so excited to attend, to be a part of it, and while her absence will kill him, he also knows his aunt would probably take a break from terrorizing people in the afterlife to haunt him if he doesn't go through with it.

“I will. I just….I think I have to change the timeline.”

“Change the timeline?” She shakes her head, protesting. “No. Roman, the dates you chose are literally perfect. What’s better than Christmas and Valentine's Day?”

Dwayne gestures to Ava with his thumb. “She’s right. Women love that romantic shit.”

Roman closes his eyes, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest as he mulls over what he’s about to say, if he should. He knows what Solana said, but something tells him she wouldn’t care in this moment. That she’d be okay with it.

Which is why he goes on and says it.

“Solana’s pregnant.”

A loud gasp from Ava and dropped mouth from Dwayne. “Oh my God, seriously?” Ava asks in a voice of almost awe. “Holy shit, Roman, congratulations.”

A strange sense of pride fills him at the response, a stark contrast to the confused, conflicting feelings he has towards everything else regarding this pregnancy.

“It’s about goddamn time,” Dwayne claps him on the shoulder, pointing out, “was starting to worry you were going to fuck up our family’s reputation for being fertile as fuck.”

Roman rolls his eyes. “This coming from the man who swore off kids.”

Dwayne shrugs. “Ehh. My offspring are better served swallowed.”

Roman cracks a small smile as Ava looks utterly disgusted.

“I fucking hate men,” she spits, glare switching to something inquisitive. “How far along is she?”

“Two months,” Roman answers. Solana is closer to three months than anything, but that specific of an answer seems unnecessary. “But, I don’t—I don’t know if she’ll want to do that while pregnant.”

Ava seems to be doing the math Roman himself did when coming to his decision. “I mean, if she’s two months now, she’ll be due in May, and if you do it in February, that’ll put her at like, what, six months?” Ava shrugs. “She’ll definitely be showing, but—”

“It’s—” Roman cuts in, unsure why his voice is low, weighed down with something indistinguishable. “Twins. She’s—she’s having twins.”

Ava’s eyes double in size. “Oh shit, okay.”

Dwayne makes a low whistle sound. “Two at the same fucking time? Your ass is about to be knee deep in baby shit and piss.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Ava dismisses, voice switching to something more serious again. “I can get why you’re thinking of putting it off, but honestly….I think you should still stick with the original plan and timeline. Pregnant or not, Solana is gonna love it, regardless.”

He says nothing, trying to push away the negative, doubtful thoughts. When the idea first came to him, while he was trying to figure out what to do for her birthday, he was certain of it. Certain that it would definitely be something she’d appreciate. And as he worked out the specifics, bouncing ideas off Fetu, even Ava, navigating the logistics with Dwayne, it all seemed to be coming together almost perfectly.

And then things started to fall apart and unravel, and while they’ve been working hard to put everything back together. There’s still work to be done, and progress to be made.

A pregnancy.

That’s really the biggest thing that’s had Roman second-guessing himself. If Solana would still be as happy and appreciative if he were to do this while she’s with child, and there’s always going to be some doubt, but Ava’s words help to settle some of the indecision.

A lot of it, actually.

“I’ll think about it,” is the answer he settles on. “You already know this shit—”

“Stays between us,” Dwayne finishes. “Well aware.” There’s a gleam in his eyes, something similar to concern. “Are you sure you’re al—”

“Hey.”

The cousins are interrupted by another voice, another person. Matteo.

And he looks irritated.

“You might want to get in here.”

There’s something about Matteo’s expression and the almost concern in his voice that makes Roman the first to head that way, his cousins shortly behind him.

His stride is purposeful, the Tribal Chief heading back into the restaurant where he immediately sees and knows why Matteo called for his attention.

“Son of a bitch…..”

Roman is focused solely on his wife, on the way she's almost sandwiched between Naomi, Afia, Bayley, and now Ava, all of the women watching closely as Jimmy stands in front of Jey, arms up as if trying to block him from entering farther into the restaurant.

And it’s as Roman gets closer, he can see why Jimmy is trying to restrict his twin.

The smell of liquor radiates off Jey’s frame. Once in the vicinity, Roman doesn’t have time to acknowledge his wife who he can feel looking at him.

“What the hell are you doing here, Jey?” Roman’s question is calmly and coldly delivered, his fist at his side clenching and unclenching because what the fuck?

Jey’s glazed eyes fall on him as he makes a sound. “Ah,h shit, there he is, Mr. Tribal Chief himself.”

Jimmy glances at Roman. “I got this, Roman.”

“Obviously, you don’t,” Roman snaps, refocusing on Jey. “You need to leave.”

Now. Immediately. He shouldn’t even be there in the first damn place.

Jey makes a sound and snatches his arm away from Jimmy. “Man, I ain’t going nowhere. This some b–bullshit. Ya’ll tryna—tryna ice me out and shit!”

“Jey.” Roman turns to see Solana has stepped forward, Afia and Bayley both watching Roman's drunk ass cousin the whole time, as if wanting to see if he’s going to do anything. Protectively, almost. Naomi, however, just looks so frustrated with it all. Understandably so. “That’s not—”

“Oh look!” Jey’s volume increases. “It’s—it’s the queen herself! The one who—who started all this shit!” He smiles and laughs, Roman rolling his neck, sensing Matteo and Dwayne who now stand closely behind him. Also protectively. “Shit, Soso, I used to think��to think me and you was—was cool.”

“That’s enough, man,” Jimmy’s stern voice is conjoined with him once again trying to guide his brother out the restaurant. “This ain’t the time or place.”

“It certainly isn’t.” Santos joins in, Roman not missing the men that move behind him, clearly ready and waiting. He looks over at Roman, nodding, “get him out of here, or we will.”

It’s a threat. Obviously. Clearly. And Roman can’t even be upset with it. Jey coming on neutral territory trying to start some shit is unacceptable.

Embarrassing

“I ain’t going n–nowhere—”

“The hell you aren’t.” Roman turns to see Dwayne walking past him, bypassing Jimmy as he aggressively grabs Jey by the collar of his shirt. “You’re fucking embarrassing yourself, Jey.”

Jey’s inebriation is even more evident as he goes to take a poorly aimed swing at Dwayne who easily dodges as such, instead taking the opportunity to spin Jey around and start pushing him out. “Let’s go,” he barks, Jimmy moving behind him, trying to talk some sense into his hotheaded twin.

“Man! Fuck ya’ll! I got something for all ya’ll asses!”

It’s that last sentence that makes Roman’s jaw clench. Whatever leash Jey had on his temper all these years has clearly been dropped. Roman hasn’t seen his cousin this reckless since they were in their twenties.

But, as soon as Santos steps forward, inches away from Roman, Matteo moving to stand directly beside his brother, Roman already knows what’s about to be said. “Anything fucking happens on this territory—”

“I’ll handle it,” Roman asserts. He’s pissed, livid, and not even at the man before him. Santos is doing what anyone in that position would do. Reminding a potential enemy what potential consequences await should anyone be stupid enough to try anything.

Someone stupid like Jey.

Santos simply nods, saying something in Spanish causing his men to disperse.

“Jey’s becoming a problem.” Matteo speaks in Italian, clearly wanting the umbrella of privacy. Roman turns to look at him. “This can’t continue.”

Roman hates being told what he already knows, but there’s something in this that makes him simply agree. “I know.”

“Roman.” He looks down to see Solana now on the other side of him, realizes she’s holding onto his arm, looking up with eyes that give away what she wants before even saying anything. “Let’s go. home”

And just like that, the anger slips into guilt. Guilt that what was supposed to be a nice night for her has turned into this shitshow. Looking around, he sees the crowd has dispersed, Naomi nowhere to be seen as Bayley and Afia talk amongst themselves. The band resumes the music, and it appears as if they’re trying to resume like nothing happened. But, something did happen, and it’s ruined whatever enjoyment Solana was having.

Fuck.

“Solana—”

“It’s fine,” she interrupts, voice low and almost subtle. God, he fucking hates this. “Let’s—let’s just go….please.”

It’s that last word that pulls him over. “Alright.”

She gives a small nod of appreciation and turns to walk away, clearly to tell everyone goodbye, starting with Bayley and Afia and the latter’s kids who have come hovering near their mother.

“So….” Matteo speaks again, crossing his arms over his chest. “How are you going to handle this?”

Roman just looks at him and says nothing.

He says nothing because he has no idea.

He has no idea how he’s going to handle this.

—----------

The drive home is mostly silent, not much conversation transpiring between husband and wife. Once in the safety of their humble abode, Solana works to get Dulce settled as Roman heads straight to the shower, eventually finding himself sitting outside, wanting, almost needing the distraction of the beautiful night sky.

But, it’s after Solana has also showered, she finds and joins him on the balcony of their master bedroom. Wordlessly, she climbs onto his lap, hands to his face, her eyes and voice pleading. “Talk to me.”

Roman closes his eyes, saying nothing, prompting her to clarify, “and don’t try to say it was the Jey situation. You….you were off before that even happened.”

“It didn’t help,” he mutters. An honest thing. Roman needs to figure something out, because Jey’s behavior tonight was unacceptable. It was embarrassing. Embarrassing to him, but more importantly, embarrassing to the Bloodline.

And as the Tribal Chief, Roman can’t have that. Thus, he needs to find a way to resolve this shitshow. And fast.

He opens his eyes, looking directly at her. “Solana—”

“Roman.” Her voice is firmer, her gaze never leaving him. “The truth.”

It’s difficult to lie to her. Always has been. It was just what he felt he needed to do at certain points, but in this moment, in a stark contrast to prior ones, he almost doesn’t want to. He wants to get this off his chest.

So, he does.

With a heavy sigh, Roman does his best to explain all of the many things he’s been feeling the past few weeks. “Solana, I don’t—I don’t know how to do it.”

She frowns, her thumb brushing over the apple of his bearded cheek. “Do what, baby?”

His jaw tightens. “Be a father.”

Roman sees it. Sees the way her shoulders drop, sees the sadness in her eyes. “Ro….”

“I watched you tonight. I watched how you…..you connected with everyone. Connected with the kids. It’s—natural for you.” Roman closes his eyes, the words continuing to roll out almost autonomously from this place of rare vulnerability. “You’re a good person, Solana. You—you have a heart. A big heart. You were made to be a parent. A mother. I don’t—I don’t think I was made to be—”

“Don’t,” she cuts him off, her voice a perfect mixture of emotion and conviction. “Don’t say that. Don’t you ever say that, Ro.” Her eyes are watering as she gives him an emotional smile. “Roman, you have a heart, too. A big heart. You just….you’re not allowed to show it as much as I do, not in public at least, because of who you are. But, I see it all the time, I feel it all the time when we’re together.” She shakes her head, moving her hand to push back some of his hair. “I always feel so loved with and by you, and that’s exactly what our girls are going to feel.”

He swallows. “Solana—”

“What kind of father are you in your dreams?”

A valid, fair question that takes him back. Roman starts to protest, starts to push back on her, but there’s a fiery determination in her gaze that tells him doing so won’t do anything but make her push back on him even more.

He thinks about it, finally answering, almost reluctantly. “Fine.”

“Bullshit.” Another taken back expression. It feels almost wrong to hear his sweet, innocent wife curse, but she does so without hesitation. “They adore you, don’t they?” He says nothing, sensing she’s not done. “Always want to be around you, and Lina wants to be just like you, huh?”

Right away, he’s hit with flashes of scenes from the collections of dreams he’s had. Smiles. Laughter. Love. All things from two small children who are the perfect combination of himself and Solana.

Twin girls.

Their girls.

Catalina and Cataleya Reigns.

But as quickly as that arrives, reality sets in.

Despite the turmoil within, his hand on the small of her back continues to rub soothing circles that do more for him than her. “Solana, those are just—they’re just dreams.”

“No.” She shakes her head, voice softening to another level. “They’re visions. Visions of our future. Of the lives we’re going to have. Of the family we’re going to have. Of the father you’re going to be.”

“I should feel something though, Solana,” he stresses. “You’re pregnant, and I don’t….I don’t know how to feel about it. I’m not upset, but I’m not….I don’t feel what you do.”

It’s a sad, almost scary, embarrassing thing to admit. To tell his wife that he doesn’t know how to feel about a pregnancy she’s ecstatic about. But, he does. Because he owes her that much.

Owes her honestly.

“That’s okay, Roman.” The surprises continue, because her response, the tone of almost sympathy, are most certainly not what he was expecting. “I know feelings are hard for you, and I know this is a new experience for you. That’s….that’s okay. What’s not okay is you thinking or even believing you can’t do this, because you can. And you don’t have to do it alone. We’re going to do it together.”

Roman inhales deeply, trying his best to let her words penetrate his strong exterior.

And then she continues to show her sainthood, continues to show just how she’s far too good for him. “Roman….” Her eyes shift downward, and so do his. Only then does he realize while one hand is on her back, the other is planted on her stomach. Her hand over his. “I’m—I’m carrying them, so I think….I think that makes that bond stronger, easier even.” Roman doesn’t say anything, but it’s impossible for him to not think about how that’s exactly what Lita had said to him.

“What if I can’t connect with them?” A quiet, almost hushed escapee from that deeply embedded box of fears he keeps tucked away. It consists of only a few things, very few, and that most definitely happens to be one of them. “If I can’t—bond with them like you?”

“You won’t bond and connect with them like I do, because I’m their mother. That relationship between mother and daughters is always going to be different from that of father and daughters. There’s something….something special about that. Something you’ll have with them that I can never have because it’s just different, but I promise you, Roman. It’ll be there, baby.” Solana shifts her body on his lap, leaning into her chest, hugging him, laying her head in the crook of his neck. Naturally, Roman holds her, kissing her temple, thankful for her words, for her support, for her belief in him, for her.

“And maybe…maybe it won’t be now.” She moves her hand up and down his chest, a comforting gesture. “Maybe it won’t really hit for you during the pregnancy, and that’s okay, because I know, the minute you hold them for the first time, it’ll click. You’ll feel it then. Feel that love.”

Love.

Once something that was unfamiliar and foreign to him, now something that overwhelms him with its depth and weight whenever he’s around this woman. And it’s that thought, that thought of how Solana managed to completely turn his life around in the best way possible that convinces him maybe, just maybe, she’s right.

“Thank you.” Another whispered thing that emanates from the deepest part of him. “Thank you, Solana.”

She makes a sound and kisses the underside of his bearded jaw. “Never have to thank me for loving you, Ro.” It’s a natural thing for her at this point. Something that feels like it was always meant to be.

They were always meant to be.

—-------

Blood.

So much blood.

Too much blood.

She has to save him.

Spewing, streaming, bleeding from open, gaping wounds. So many wounds, the blood saturating the dark, bulky armor that he wears. Armor that, no matter how much she tries, she can’t get off him. And she needs to get it off to treat him, to help him, to do what no one else will.

Because no one else is there.

It’s him, and it’s her, and she has to save him.

There is no one else to do so.

But try as hard as she can, for all of her efforts, Solana’s hands and clothes continue to stain red from the blood that continues to pour out of him at an alarming rate, much quicker than anything she’s ever seen, which is how she knows there are several bullet and/or stab wounds

She has to save him.

Her mouth opens, words of desperation and pleas tumbling out as works endlessly to treat him, begs of mercy to God, to whomever, to anyone, to hear her cries. Blood soaked hands that intermittently go to shake him, to keep him from drifting, but she knows this scene. Knows it all too well.

Has seen it play out before.

And, it guts her.

“Stay with me, okay?” She gasps, her chest feeling like it’s about to explode at any moment. “Just—just stay, okay? You’re—you’re gonna be okay.”

He says nothing, has said nothing, just continues to lay there, rendered silent to his injuries. Injuries he’s slowly succumbing to.

“I’m gonna s—s–ave you,” she promises, going back to trying to remove the goddamn armor for him only for it to not bulge once more. She shouts out in frustration, gasping violently, using her forearm to wipe at her eyes. The tears blurring her vision serve as a barrier she can’t afford. “It’s—Roman?” Breathing halts. Time stops. Existence ceases. “R–Ro?” A trembling hands digs through the material covering his neck to feel for his pulse, Solana immediately gasping and snatching back her hand. “N–no.” Solana shakes her head, moving to shake him. “R—Roman, wake up. Please—please wake up—” Her please of mercy are a stark contrast to the empty, vacant look in his eyes. A look she’s only seen once before on the only other day of her life where it all ended.

The day her mother was killed.

The sob escapes from the back of her throat, as she moves her body over his, still trying to shake him awake, refusing to lose him to the devastating grips of fate. “W–wake up!” Her cries echo in the void of the abyss that surrounds him. “You–you can’t leave us. W—wake up!”

“Solana!”

Solana shoots up with a violent gasp, immediately hyperventilating, eyes wide and forward and focused on nothing in general. Not at first, at least. It’s only when Roman hits the light on the nightstand and moves his hands to her face, cupping her cheeks, Solana starts to come down from the shock and into the hysterics.

She moves her hands to his bare chest, feeling around, needing to feel and see for herself.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” His voice finally registers, as she realizes he’s been trying to talk to and calm her down this entire time. “Solana—”

“It felt so real,” she cries, unable to shake the violent imagery away. “You were—” She can barely get the words out, something Roman seems against as he tries to settle, seeing how talking is even more distressing for her. “I couldn’t—I couldn’t save you.”

It’s only then he seems to understand why she’s so upset, knows the content of her dreams, “baby, I’m fi—”

“I can’t lose you,” she gasps, moving her hands to his forearms, holding him. “I can’t lose you, Roman.”

“You’re not going to, Sol,” he vows, hand cradling the back of her head. “Baby, I’m fine. Nothing is going to—”

Solana continues to shake her head, one hand dropping to her stomach. “I can’t—I can’t raise the girls without you.”

“You won’t,” he promises, expression sympathetic. “Solana, I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

“Promise me.” Her voice is sudden and desperate, her eyes wide and filled with tears. “Promise me nothing’s going to happen to you.”

There’s hesitation, only for a second, but not enough to draw her attention. “I promise nothing’s going to happen to me, Solana.”

Words. A sentence. But, it does something for her. Clearly and visibly decreases her spiked anxiety. Solana nods, closing her eyes and moving herself into Roman’s chest as he guides them so that they’re laying back down, her body pressed into his.

Unaware that at the same time Roman tries to comfort his wife, elsewhere across town, various notifications arrive. One a text, the other an answer.

One of departure from one group.

*Jey Uso has left the Operation RoSo conversation*

One informing of arrival into another.

Jey Uso: I’m in.

#roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns x black!oc #roman reigns fic #arisnotebook

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loveharlow · 3 months ago

Note

I can’t stop thinking about bestfriend!JJ being super angry because you kissed Rafe at a a party when you were drunk!!

⋯ ♡ᵎ 💬 : boy he'd be friggin, friggin PISSED (do y'all ever get my tik tok references or do you just think i'm ill? LMAO)

The throbbing in your head was a dull echo of the chaotic mess you'd made the night before. Tequila shots, bad decisions, and apparently, a lip-lock with the last person on earth you should have touched. Just the thought sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through your frame.

JJ hadn’t said a word when you'd stumbled back to the Chateau in the pre-dawn hours, Sarah practically carrying you. He’d just looked at you, his usual easy grin replaced by a tight, unfamiliar line around his mouth, before disappearing out the back door. That silence was worse than any shouting match.

The back screen door slammed, jolting you from your miserable contemplation on the porch swing. You didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The heavy tread of his boots on the wood, the way the air seemed to thicken with a sudden tension – it could only be JJ.

He stood there for a long moment, his shadow stretching across the porch, before finally speaking. His voice wasn't loud, but it was rough, the easygoing tone you loved so much was completely absent. "So," he began, each syllable weighted. "You gonna tell me what the hell happened last night?"

You finally turned, your stomach twisting into knots at the sight of him. His eyes, usually bright and full of mischief, were clouded with something you couldn't quite decipher – hurt, maybe? Disappointment? It was a look you never wanted to see directed your way, especially not from him.

"JJ, I..." The words caught in your throat, thick with shame and the lingering taste of cheap tequila. How could you even begin to explain the inexplicable? "I was drunk, I did a lot of things I shouldn't have..."

He took a step closer, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his cut-off shorts. "Rafe," he stated flatly, the name sounding like a curse on his lips. "You kissed Rafe. Rafe Cameron. You tellin' me you were too drunk to remember that?"

The bluntness of his words hit you like a physical blow. You winced, closing your eyes briefly. "No, I know..." you whispered, the admission feeling like a betrayal in itself.

A humorless laugh escaped him. "That's just so crazy to me considering the multiple conversations we've had about everything he's done and how much we hate him-"

"JJ, I- It didn't mean anything, I was completely wasted." you stammered. The space between you felt vast, space created by your own mistake.

"Wasted enough to forget who your friends are? Wasted enough to… to kiss him?" The emphasis he placed on Rafe's name dripped with disgust, a sentiment you wholeheartedly shared, at least when you were sober.

"No, of course not," you said quickly, desperately trying to bridge the gap between you. "JJ, you're my best friend. You know that. Last night… it was a mistake. A stupid, awful mistake that I regret more than anything. He was coming onto me and...I wasn't thinking."

He searched your eyes, his expression unreadable. "Then explain it to me," he said, his voice softer now, but still laced with a deep unease. "Help me understand how you ended up tangled up with him."

The weight of his gaze, the unspoken question in his eyes, was almost unbearable. You knew you owed him an explanation, even if you barely understood it yourself. The throbbing in your head was nothing compared to the ache in your chest at the thought of jeopardizing the bond you shared with JJ, the person who knew you better than anyone, the one who had always been your constant in the unpredictable chaos of your life.

"Explain it." JJ repeated, his voice rising, the earlier softness gone. He took another step, closing the distance between you, and you could see the muscle twitching in his jaw. "Explain how you ended up slobbering all over the guy who's made our lives a living hell? The guy who almost got John B killed? Who beat the shit out of Pope? You want me to understand that?"

His words were like shards of glass, each one piercing the fragile bubble of your regret. You flinched, shrinking in on yourself. "It wasn't like that," you mumbled, the shame intensifying under his furious gaze. "It was just… a dumb moment. It didn't mean anything-"

"Didn't mean anything?" he scoffed, a harsh, bitter sound. He ran a hand roughly through his already disheveled hair. "You think seeing you with him didn't mean anything to me? You think knowing you'd even let that piece of shit touch you doesn't make me sick to my stomach?"

His anger was a tangible thing, radiating off him in waves. You'd seen JJ angry before, usually directed at Topper or some Kook trying to mess with you or your friends. But this was different. This anger was personal, directed at you, and it stung in a way you hadn't anticipated.

"J, please," you pleaded, your voice trembling. "You have to believe me. I was out of my mind. I wouldn't… I would never intentionally do something to hurt you, to hurt our friends, to...to hurt us."

He took another step back, creating that painful distance again. "But you did!" he shouted, his voice raw with a mixture of fury and something that sounded dangerously close to despair. "I mean, what were you thinking? Did you suddenly forget everything Rafe's done?"

The accusations hit you hard. He was right. How could you have been so careless? The tequila was a weak excuse, a weak shield against the truth of your monumental lapse in judgment.

"No," you choked out, tears pricking at your eyes. "Never. You know I would never… I don't know why it happened, JJ. I just… I messed up."

"Messed up?" he echoed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You kissed the enemy, Y/N! He had his tongue down your throat. The guy who's part of the reason we're always looking over our shoulders! And you call that a 'mess up'?"

His anger was escalating, and you could feel your own desperation rising to meet it. He was your best friend, and the thought that you might have fractured that bond with one stupid, drunken kiss was tearing you apart.

"What do you want me to say, JJ?" you cried, your voice cracking. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry. You know it won't happen again. I promise it won't. Just… please, don't look at me like that."

He stared at you, his eyes blazing with an intensity you'd never seen before. "Like what?" he challenged, his voice dangerously low. "Like I can't believe you? Like I'm questioning every damn thing I thought I knew about you?"

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with unspoken accusations and the weight of your mistake. You could see the hurt simmering beneath his anger, and it was that hurt, more than his anger, that made your heart ache. You had truly hurt him, one of the few people who had always had your back, and the realization was a brutal, gut-wrenching blow.

"Friends..." JJ started, shaking his head and biting his lip. "Friends don't do that. They just don't."

"JJ, I'm sorry-"

"Save your apology for someone who wants to hear it." He dismissed, turning away from you. "'Cause it ain't me." He snarled before going inside, leaving you to wallow in your drunken regrets all alone.

JJ Maybank Taglist in replies!

feedback is appreciated! thanks for reading. follow & turn on post notifs for @theharlowpost for writing exclusive updates!

©loveharlow

#req. ♥︎#jj maybank imagine #jj maybank #obx jj #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank x you #jj mayback x reader #jj mayback imagine #outer banks x reader #jj maybank x y/n #jj maybank x fem!reader #jj maybank x pogue!reader #jj maybank x female reader

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vodika-vibes · 5 months ago

Text

You Don't Have To Worry

Summary: You hate being confined to bed, it makes you feel pathetic and useless. Boba has opinions on your feelings though.

Pairing: Boba Fett x GN!Reader

Word Count: 1561

Warnings: Reader is described as having hair long enough to pull into a knot and it's "fluffed" by Boba at one point. Reader wears fine silks, but there's no stated gender. Reader gets migraines based on how my migraines go.

A/N: I love boba and I have a migraine forming, so I squished both together and created this.

Click HERE to be added to my taglist

The worst thing about living on Tatooine, in your opinion, aside from the rampant crime, the miserable heat, and the sand that gets everywhere, are the twin suns that sit high in the sky.

Why?

Because when you have a migraine, there’s no possible way to avoid the light.

It’s constant.

All consuming.

And it’s pushing you to start your villain arc if you’re going to be completely honest.

Boba won’t mind. Hell, he might even help if you word it correctly.

He’s great that way.

You roll onto your stomach and bury your face in your soft pillows. Every movement is like someone is stabbing a knife into your brain through your eye. Maybe, if you smother yourself, the pain will go away.

The Chrono next to the bed chimes annoyingly, and even that noise is enough to make you groan in pain. Blindly, you scrabble for the small device to turn it off, and then you grab your comm and squint at the screen.

You have a meeting in two hours. One that you swore to Boba that you can handle for him.

Fuck.

Fuckity fuck.

Slowly you sit up and roll out of your bed, literally in this case, as you just sort of sink to the floor while wrapped in your thin blankets.

This is fine.

Who cares if the room is spinning? You can handle it. And the nausea is easily ignored so long as you don’t try to eat or drink anything. And, so long as you don’t move your head too much, the pain is hardly noticeable. Ish.

You take a long moment to untangle yourself from your blankets before you drag yourself to the fresher to shower and make yourself presentable as Boba’s Riduur.

Luckily, you can do your morning routine blindfolded.

Body and hair are washed, and then your hair is styled and twisted up off your neck. Lotion, to keep your skin from cracking due to the dry air, and makeup, because you do have to look like you belong next to Boba. You elect to skip your perfume, knowing from experience that the scent will make you throw up, and instead apply a little more lightly scented lotion.

Then you drape your body in the fine silks that Boba buys for you and pull on the sturdy boots that Boba and Fennec insist you wear under your fine clothes, and you stop and stand in front of your full-length mirror.

There. Perfect.

You look, every inch, like the Daimyo’s Riduur. Perfectly styled and coifed.

And, you did so without crying or throwing up.

You deserve a gold star.

Now. All you have to do is get through this meeting without showing that you’re in pain. Easy.

At least, it’s easy in theory.

Half an hour later, you’re having some regrets as the men you’re meeting with are both very loud and very drunk, and you’re torn between stabbing them to make them shut up, and stabbing yourself to make the pain go away.

Much more distressingly, you can feel Boba’s gaze on you.

It doesn’t matter that you’ve gone out of your way to make sure that you look fine, and that you’re using all of your skills (developed over years of working retail) to keep a placid smile on your face.

Boba knows that there’s something off with you.

Of course, he does.

He has a sixth sense when it comes to you.

If he finds out, for sure, that you’re working with a migraine he’s going to scold you. And this will be just another burden your Riduur will have to bear.

So you shove the pain to the back of your mind, and you smoothly get the meeting back on track.

Though, in the end, it doesn’t matter.

Less than fifteen minutes later, Boba interrupts the meeting and sends the businessmen on their way with a curt, “We’re not interested.” As soon as the room is empty, he pulls his helmet off and pins you with a severe look.

You avert your gaze and absently twist a strand of hair between your fingers. It’s so hot, already, that your hair is already falling out of the knot you put it in.

“You have a migraine?” It’s not a question, for all that it’s phrased as such.

“I’m fine,” You reply immediately, turning your head to look at him, only to wince at the stabbing pain in your head, “You don’t have to worry about me.” You try to reassure him, but his expression only grows more severe.

“It is my job as your riduur to worry about you.”

“Well, yes, but—”

He presses his hand over your mouth, “You’re going back to bed. Have you taken anything yet?”

You sigh and your shoulders droop slightly, “No.”

“Why?”

You twist your lips but don’t answer him. Can’t answer him, really, around the lump in your throat. All you wanted was to prove that you could stand next to him without adding to his troubles. To prove to all of the people who claimed that you don’t belong next to Boba wrong.

And you can’t even do that right.

Boba sighs, a heavy noise that has you cringing internally.

“Come along, riduur. Let’s get you settled back in our room.” Boba’s hand is light as it settles on your lower back. He doesn’t seem to mind that you don’t want to answer him.

The walk back to your room is long and quiet. A part of you appreciates it, your head hurts so much that any talking sounds like torture to you. And a part of you can’t help but worry if Boba is actually that mad at you.

Once you’re both in the bedroom, Boba carefully pulls your hair out of the complicated knot you pulled it into earlier and uses his fingers to fluff your hair, then he peels you out of the fine silks you’re wearing and pulls one of his shirts over your head.

It’s only after he sits you on the end of the bed and starts wiping the makeup off your face that he speaks again, “Do you feel like telling me why you didn’t take your medicine yet?” He doesn’t sound angry, just mildly curious.

You shrug a single shoulder.

He lightly taps your chin, “Head back, riduur, I need to get to your eyes.”

You obediently obey him, your eyes closing as you tilt your head back.

He’s quiet for a bit longer as he cleans your face with the same meticulous detail that he pays when he’s cleaning his armor, “You know, we got that medicine to help you with your migraines, riduur.”

“It makes me tired.”

“There you are, I was worried that someone stole your voice,” He sinks to his knee in front of you, his dark eyes scanning your face, “I’d rather you be tired than in pain, riduur.” One of his hands rests on your knee, and you absently trail your fingers over the top of his glove.

“I know.”

He swiftly tugs his glove off and flips his hand so he can take your hand in his, “So why would you allow yourself to stay in pain? Talk to me, riduur. I can’t help if I don’t know the problem.”

“I just…” You trail off, “I promised that I would handle it—”

“Riduur, we were never going to agree to the deal, the meeting wasn’t so important that you needed to torture yourself.” Boba’s voice is so gentle with you that you want to cry.

“I didn’t want to add to your burdens.” You admit, “And my migraines…” You trail off, “I’m sorry, Boba.”

“You don’t have to apologize for getting migraines, it’s not your fault.” He kisses your hand, “but, I’m very curious to hear who, exactly, called you a burden to me.” His voice is still very light, and conversational, but there’s an undertone in his voice that you’re very familiar with.

Something dark and dangerous.

Something you haven’t heard in his voice since he stepped up as Daimyo.

“Whatever you’re thinking,” You start, “I’m not worth it—”

“I disagree. You’re my riduur and someone made you feel like you’re lesser than you are. That is very much worth my time.”

You’re quiet for a moment, and then you sigh, “Just some people I grew up with, and some members of my family.”

He nods but doesn’t say anything else. Instead, he kisses your hand one more time, and then goes into the fresher and returns with a single foil packet. “One pill, right?”

“Yeah.”

He hands you the packet and makes sure that you take the pill before he ushers you back into bed and tucks your blankets around you, “I’ll bring you lunch in a couple of hours. Call me if you need anything.”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

You release a soft laugh, “I promise.”

“Good.” Boba kisses your temple, “Love you, riduur.”

“Love you too, Boba.” He kisses you gently, and then pulls away. He takes a moment to make sure that the thick curtains are shielding the room from the suns outside, and he dims the lights, and then he’s gone.

And you, well with the twin suns blocked from entering the room, and your medicine running through your system, you slowly slip back into the waiting arms of slumber.

@heidnspeak

@justiceandwar98

@etod

@kiss-anon

@lonewolflupe

@silly-starfish

@msmeredithrose

@cdblake1565

@badbatch-bitch

@continous-mistakes

@falconfeather23435

@tiredbi-peach

@kimiheartblade

@clones-cyare

@cc--2224

@0revna0

@mira-loves-star-wars

@trixie2023

@rebell-ious

@padawancat97

@sweater-sloot

@bekahcurlygirl

@bb8-99

@maniacalbooper

@wax-birds

@adriennelenoir

@omegaprime18

@bad4amficideas

@dukeoftheblackstar

@yoitsjay

@liz-stat

@arctech-fox

#star wars #tbobf #boba fett x reader #boba x reader #star wars fanfiction #x reader fanfiction #gn!reader fic

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schemmentigfs · 10 months ago

Note

Req/idea: Melissa wanting to pleasure the reader, but she’s inexperienced with women? (Talking her through it, reassurance, building trust, etc)

Her First Woman’s Touch.

Summary: Melissa goes through a difficult process of self-discovery and acceptance to learn more about intimacy between women, so she can give you pleasure during sex.

Warnings: ANGST, mentions of religious trauma, internalized homophobia, a single slur, body insecurities, smoking, smut. melissa might be out of character sometimes? joe hate club

Notes: This is long, but it’s worth it. 🤍 i wrote it with so much love, so enjoy babies.

Melissa Ann Caterina Schemmenti wasn’t insecure and vulnerable. She always was the rock of her social circle, the unstoppable woman who could handle anything thrown at her with a steady, unflinching resolve. Her demeanor was tough, marked by a confidence that rarely wavered. But lately, a huge doubt consumed her.

After years of feeling trapped by a label that didn’t define and fit her, she finally came out as a bisexual woman. However, this new freedom came with its own uncertainties. Now, being in a stable four months relationship with you, a more younger, captivating and more experienced soul. Her heart was racing as she thought about how she wanted to please you and be sexually intimate, but her lack of experience with women made her hesitant.

The painful memories of her college years flooded her mind again and again, a time when she had yearned to explore her bisexuality but felt shackled by her upbringing. Her parents, deeply religious, had instilled in her a profound sense of guilt about any feelings that strayed from their beliefs. Melissa always watched with envy as others embraced their identities, while she remained in silence, suppressing who she was. This inner conflict persisted long after graduation, but now, as an adult, it felt heavier than ever.

The memory of her father’s harsh words cut through her like a knife. “You’re going to burn in hell, Melissa Ann!” he shouted, his voice thick with anger and disappointment. “You’re gonna be the black sheep of the Schemmentis. If you don’t stop with those stupid thoughts.” Those horrendous words, once echoing through their small, cluttered kitchen, now reverberated in her mind, haunting her even years later. “Someone corrupted you, that’s not the daughter I raised to make me and your mother proud. Non sei un fottuto frocio!”

A knot tightened in her stomach, a familiar feeling of dread and nausea creeping in as she recalled her traumatic childhood. She remembered the confusion and shame she felt, struggling to understand why she was drawn to both boys and girls. It was a realization she had kept hidden for so long, fearing the wrath and rejection of her family. Every stolen glance, every fleeting crush on a girl, had been tainted with guilt and self–recrimination.

For decades she blamed herself for not being straight. For not fitting into the strict normal mold her family expected her to follow. The fear of condemnation had forced her to hide her true self, living in a constant state of doubt. The burden of carrying her secret had made her feel isolated and alone, as if she were the only one in the world grappling with these feelings.

In her teenage years growing up in a strict devout Catholic household, Melissa would often lock herself in her bedroom, her sanctuary from the outside world, and pray. The room was small, with a crucifix hanging on the wall above her bed, and a small statue of the Virgin Mary on her simple nightstand. The faint scent of incense from morning Mass still lingered in the air. On the days when the weight of her feelings became too much, she would kneel by her bed, clasping her hands tightly together, her knuckles white with tension.

But her prayers often turned into desperate arguments with God. She’d rail against the silence that seemed to mock her suffering. In fits of anger and confusion, she would scream at the crucifix, questioning why she was cursed with desires that didn’t align with the life she had been taught to lead. Melissa was supposed to marry a good healthy man and start a family of her own, wasn’t she?

“Dear Lord, why have you condemned me to this torment?” she cried out, her voice cracking with desperation. “Why have you made me this way? Why can’t you accept me for who I am? Am I so abhorrent in your sight that I must suffer endlessly? Tell me—am I so wrong, so irredeemable in your eyes?”

She paused. “And what about my feelings for both boys and girls? Is it a sin to love them both? Am I to be punished because my heart refuses to choose between them? Why must my own nature be a source of such unending pain? Why can’t you understand that my love for them is just as real, just as genuine, as any other?”

One evening, overwhelmed by the unbearable weight of her internal conflict, Melissa’s deepest frustration reached a boiling point. She hurled a wooden chair across the room, its legs scraping loudly against the floor as it crashed into the wall. The violent act seemed to punctuate her desperation, the chair’s splintering echo a stark contrast to her deep-seated pain.

“Why do you let Pa call me a dyke? Why do you let him say I’m an abomination? You know the pain it causes me! Why do you let him tear me apart inside while Ma pretends nothing’s wrong?”

Her knees buckled as she collapsed to the floor. The coldness of the tiles was a stark contrast to the feverish heat of her anger. One of the holy saints statues, a symbol of her faith, tumbled from its pedestal and shattered, its fragments scattering across the room.

The once serene face was now a mosaic of broken pieces. The porcelain, once pure and whole, now lay in shards, mirroring her own fragmented sense of self. The saint’s broken visage was a stark reminder of the purity that had been tainted by the harsh reality of her suffering.

“No! Not Saint Maria! Nonna’s favorite saint!”

The exhaustion was overwhelming. She felt her limbs growing numb and her head growing heavy. Her vision blurred, and the room spun around her. Despite her attempts to fight it, her body succumbed to the fatigue. Her breaths grew shallower as she drifted closer to unconsciousness.

As she began to lose consciousness, her lips parted, and a whisper escaped her mouth. “I’m just… a failure,” she murmured, voice barely audible. Her depressive words were a final, fragile admission of her internal turmoil. The words were soaked in the weight of her self-loathing and the pain of feeling misunderstood and rejected.

The door creaked open slightly, and Kristin Marie peeked into the old bedroom, her wide eyes searching for her older sister. She saw Melissa sprawled on the floor, her form partially obscured by the scattered shards and a amount of blood. Her innocent curiosity was momentarily replaced by concern, but the sight of her stillness made her stop.

“Sister Mel is sleepy,” she giggled, her words full of poor miscomprehension. The toddler turned to leave, deciding to give her sister the rest she seemed to need. “Play later!”

Hours later, Melissa slowly stirred, her head throbbing with a dull ache. As she tried to sit up, she felt a sticky warmth on her forehead. She reached up, her fingers coming away covered in a faint crimson. Groaning softly, she touched the spot gingerly and winced as the pain intensified.

“Son of a bitch...”

Gazing at the mess and determined to salvage what was left, she carefully gathered the shards of the broken statue, her hands shaking slightly. She meticulously cleaned the pieces, placing them in a small box as though they were precious remnants of something sacred. And pretended that nothing happened. It was now her dirty little secret.

One that Melissa would keep with her until her death.

Every family gathering, every holiday, was a reminder of how different she felt, how she didn't belong. The Schemmentis prided themselves on their strong values, and she felt like an outlier, a blemish on their perfect image. The weight of her father's words and her mother’s neglecting was a constant reminder of the expectations she could never meet the acceptance Melissa feared she would never find. The poor woman’s siblings, although supportive of their sister, stood in silence, afraid of going against their beloved ma and pa.

In the midst of this stifling environment as life continued, the older woman remained in complete denial. At work, she kept her personal life carefully hidden. Even though her closest colleagues sensed her discomfort and unease, they never pried. She wore her public mask of professionalism and cheerfulness, but beneath it, she was struggling with her own truths.

Becoming a tough woman and pretending to just be heterosexual, a role she embraced, took a significant toll on her mental being. This strength she presented to the world was both a shield and a cage. The weight to maintain this image meant suppressing her vulnerabilities and emotions, leading to a constant internal battle. Her moments of solitude were marked by a deep, unspoken sadness as she grappled with isolation.

The persona she projected often felt like a lie, one that she had to uphold despite the emotional exhaustion it caused. Her mental health suffered as she became increasingly disconnected from her true self. Not recognizing herself anymore.

Melissa’s failed marriage with Joe was a constant reminder of the life she had tried to conform to but never truly belonged to.

That seemed to change when Ava hired you as the new teacher to take third-grade class. You brought a warmth and openness that cut through the fiery redhead’s worst barriers, sparking a connection she had not anticipated. As your friendship deepened into something more, she found herself struggling with feelings she had long suppressed. Despite her growing affection for you, she hesitated to cross the line into physical intimacy.

This vulnerability and insecurity consumed her every single second. As she lay in her king-sized bed on a Friday night after a busy day at school, she couldn’t help but replay every moment of your relationship in her mind. She worried constantly about whether she was good enough for you, fearing she might be making you impatient due to her reluctance to have sex. The fear of disappointing you gnawed at her, and she found herself staring at the ceiling, lost in thought. She ached with the desire to connect with you on a deeper level, to show you just how much she cared, but the uncertainty held her back.

Each night, as she lay next to you in your complex apartment, the older woman would often find herself tracing the gentle curves of your sleeping body with her fingertips, memorizing the softness of your skin under her touch. You were a source of warmth and safety, still every time she opened her mouth to voice her fears, the words lodged in her throat. It was a silent battle, one that filled her with shame and frustration. Melissa felt as if she was a stranger in her own body, struggling to reconcile her desires with her reality.

You had been nothing but patient, reassuring her multiple times that there was no rush at all, that love was about connection and trust. Even amidst your understanding, a humiliation consumed her. How could she be almost fifty four and still feel so unprepared for something natural like that? The shame burned fiercely in her chest, a constant reminder of her late blooming, leaving her wondering if she could ever truly satisfy you in the ways you deserved.

“Santo cielo. I can’t do this I fuckin’ can’t.” Melissa cursed, tears threatening to fall into her green eyes. Why was this so damn complicated? The internal struggle felt unbearable, as if a storm was about to explode inside her. It consumed her, and even surrounded by understanding, the pressure of everything was overwhelming.

Turning her head toward the mirror, she stared at her reflection. The image staring back at her was a woman trapped between two worlds. On one side was the freedom she had found in accepting her sexuality, a liberation she had long yearned for. On the other hand, the harsh reality of her insecurities loomed large, amplified by her constant comparisons to others who seemed so much more experienced and confident. The weight of her inexperience made her feel small and inadequate.

She sat up in bed, wiping at her eyes angrily. “Fuck this, Schemmenti,” she muttered. The words came out as a broken whisper, a desperate plea to herself, but the self-reproach did little to ease the turmoil inside her. The tears came anyway, hot and unchecked, as she let out a shuddering breath. She needed to find a way to talk to you, to bridge the gap that her disquiet had created. But the question remained—could she overcome her past and embrace the love she had found with you? She wanted to explore, to learn, to share everything with you, but the fear of failing paralyzed her.

“There are so many things I still don’t understand,” the redhead continued, her voice choking, as if she was waiting for someone to answer her. “So many things that I need to explore. And I keep getting lost in doubts. It’s not fair to you, baby. It’s not fair to me either.”

Melissa let out a long, weary sigh as she sank into the soft embrace of the sheets once again, curling up into a tight ball of self–deprecation. The emptiness of the bedroom started to swallow her figure, a stark contrast to the comfort and safety she used to feel. She stared at the empty space beside her, her gaze tracing the outlines of the pillow and the indentations where you lain on weekends. The walls of the room, once so familiar, now seemed cold and distant, offering little solace from the storm of emotions inside her.

Memories of happy times with you surfaced, fleeting but powerful, when she would catch you looking at her with tenderness, and such understanding, that it felt like the world stopped spinning. In those moments, her apprehension would momentarily dissipate, replaced by the warmth of your company and gaze. She remembered how you would gently reassure her, your voice a soothing balm to her restless state.

I know I’m your first woman; that means everything to me.

I’ll be gentle, just take your time. You’re safe with me.

Your reassurances helped—sometimes. When you’d say things like those, a part of her believed you, trusted in your kindness. But another part of her couldn’t stop the flood of negativity, couldn’t shut out the fear that she would disappoint you, that she was fumbling through something too precious to ruin.

You’ll never be enough for her, Melissa. You’ve never done this before. She’ll get tired of waiting for you to figure it out. You’ll embarrass yourself.

You’re fumbling, and she’s just being nice. She’s just waiting for the moment she can walk away.

You’re too old for this. You’re too slow, too clumsy. She can do better. She will do better.

“Mi dispiace amore mio, sono un codardo,” she yelled punching the mattress with her fist.

That Friday, she cried until she fell asleep. Exhausted, her salty tears wet the pillow, and silent sobs shook her body as she tried, in vain, to calm the storm of emotions built up inside her. The deep need to feel confident and equal to the love you gave her. And as a troubled sleep finally embraced her, Melissa felt a small relief. The crying, in a way, had been a step towards releasing the feelings that tormented her.

Was she really a coward that would never face her fears?

What were you doing with an old lady like her who didn’t know anything?

Wouldn’t it just be better if you left her?

Over the weekend, the older woman was relaxing on the plastic couch in her living room, a glass of red wine resting in her right hand as she puffed away at a cigarette. The soft lights created a welcoming atmosphere, and the sound of the television, playing Celebrity Jeopardy, filled the space with a comfortable familiar distraction. She was distracted, but her mind was away from the entertainment, deep in thoughts about what she had just watched and what she still needed to do. Melissa watched the show's contestants, her eyes scanning the confident faces on the screen.

She looked at her cigarette, which was almost finished, and let it go out in the ashtray. Her old cigarette addiction had become a metaphor for her deepest insecurities — a habit that was difficult to break, but one that constantly reminded her of her challenges and rage. Each ember that dimmed seemed to echo the older woman's own struggles, a poignant reminder of the destructive patterns she fought to escape. The acrid smell lingered, an olfactory ghost of her past, stubbornly clinging to her clothes and her very soul. With a heavy sigh, she flicked the ash and resolved to confront the parts of herself she had long tried to ignore.

She leaned back into the couch, closing her eyes and taking another sip of wine. The warmth of the alcohol spread through her chest, loosening some of the tension. She knew she needed to do something, to find a way to overcome her fears and insecurities. But where to start? And how to reach information? The idea of opening up about her feelings, of admitting her lack of experience, felt terrifying since she hated to show any sign of weakness.

“Maybe I should do some research?” Melissa thought aloud, the idea dawning on her slowly. It sounded ridiculous at first, but the more she considered it, the more it made sense. She had always been someone who liked to be prepared, to have all the information before making a decision. This situation was no different. If she wanted to feel more confident, she needed to educate herself.

As the edition of Celebrity Jeopardy on the TV ended, replaced by a late-night talk show, Melissa stood up and stretched, feeling the tension ease from her muscles. She walked over to the windows, looking out at the night sky. The stars twinkled brightly, a reminder that the world was vast and full of possibilities. She smiled softly to herself, feeling a renewed sense of purpose.

The redhead raised another cigarette to the empty room, striking a match with a soft scratch. As the flame illuminated the dark space for a moment, she took a deep drag, letting the smoke curl up around her. “To new beginnings, for me, for Y/n. To us,” she whispered, voice barely above a murmur. The words hung in the air, resonating in the quiet of the room. It wasn’t a perfect solution, and she knew doubts and fears would still linger. But it was a step in the right direction. As the TV continued to hum, Melissa felt a small flicker of hope. She might not have all the answers, but at least she was ready to start looking for them.

Over the next few days and weeks, on several sleepless nights, the teacher searched on Google. How to navigate a same-sex relationship when you’re inexperienced? she typed, pressing enter before she could second-guess herself. As the results loaded, she skimmed through the titles. There were so many women who had been in her shoes, who had felt the same insecurities and fears at one moment of their lives. With each click, she felt more intrigued and amazed as she noticed the many different options for how she could give and receive pleasure. Articles, videos, forums—an entire world unfolded before her, revealing nuances she had never considered or imagined. She read article after article, watched educational videos, and even ventured into The Womanizer and Quinn blogs where women shared their intimate experiences and advice. The sheer variety of ways to connect and pleasure each other was both overwhelming and fascinating to her.

As she read through personal stories and advice columns, Melissa felt a mixture of excitement and trepidation. She took notes, bookmarked pages, and even found herself blushing at some of the more detailed descriptions. It was a strange, exhilarating education that left her feeling more informed but still uncertain. The more she learned, the more she realized how much she didn't know. And as she delved deeper into this research, she began to realize that the key was not just in techniques, but in communication and emotional connection. The Sicilian woman recalled how your soft touches and kind words made her feel safe and wanted. Perhaps the most important thing would be to bring that same security and desire to both of you.

After weeks of diving into intense research, Melissa found herself at a crossroad. Each day spent pouring over books, articles, and seeking advice had only heightened her awareness of her inexperience. The redhead made a heartfelt promise to herself, one that resonated deeply within her. She resolved that rather than allowing her fears and uncertainties to overshadow her, she would harness the insights she had gained to fortify the bond between you. This wasn’t just about confronting her own apprehensions; it was about opening her heart fully and trusting you in ways she had never allowed herself before.

She envisioned a future where both of you could explore and embrace the full spectrum of love and connection. Melissa understood that the path ahead would not be without its challenges. It would require patience, understanding, and a willingness to be vulnerable. Although, she was committed to embarking on this journey with you. She was prepared to face her worst fears head-on and let the promise of love and trust guide her.

—

“C’mon. It shouldn’t be that hard, stop being a pussy.” The redhead huffed, walking through the busy streets and holding a small pamphlet with an address on it. Pushing herself forward. The words were meant to be a pep talk, but they came out more as a grumble. Dressed in a black leather jacket, her left hand buried deep in her pocket gripping her keys so tightly that the cold metal dug into her palm. While the right clutched the paper, she cut a confident figure. But inside, she felt like a terrified kid again.

On this afternoon, Melissa found herself standing outside a cozy queer café in Philadelphia. The establishment’s large windows framed a warm, inviting interior filled with plush armchairs, bookshelves, vases of plants and soft lighting. A sign with an impeccable handwriting on the door read Sapphic Women’s Discussion Group. All Welcome! The vibrant façade, adorned with rainbow flags and welcoming posters promoting LGBTQ+ events, felt inviting and intimidating.

She was resting on the door handle. The intrusive thought of turning around, retreating to the safety of her car, and forgetting this whole idea crossed her mind. For years, Melissa had thought about walking into a place like this, spaces that welcomed women like her, women who loved other women—but she never imagined she’d actually do it. Not at her age, not after a life of silence and denial.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open and stepped inside, the smell of freshly brewed coffee and baked goods enveloping her.

“Here goes nothin’,” The Italian redhead said with a hint of sarcasm, her South Philly accent wry and unmistakable. “I swear if anyone makes funny of me, I’ll fucking ran away–”

Inside, the atmosphere was lively but casual. Women of various ages and backgrounds were seated at tables, engaged in conversations. Laughter and the hum of voices filled the air, creating a sense of community and belonging. The older woman spotted a table in the corner with a small group of women and made her way over, hoping to blend in while still taking in the atmosphere and aura. The table she chose was adorned with a simple centerpiece of fresh flowers, next to a hand-drawn menu filled with witty drink names like Sappho’s Latte and Audre’s Espresso.

“Mind if I sit here?” she asked, her voice betraying just a hint of nervousness.

They nodded, murmuring polite welcomes, and she sat down, smoothing her jacket out of habit. Just as she was settling in, a woman in her mid-thirties approached, a friendly smile lighting up her face. She had short, dark hair that fell naturally across her forehead, and her denim jacket was covered with pins advocating for various causes—pride flags, feminist slogans, and more. There was something about her presence that radiated both strength and warmth, an unspoken understanding in her eyes that seemed to invite openness.

“Hey, you’re new here, right? I’m Jules. Can I join you?”

She managed a small, nervous smile and shifted her gaze downward, politely giving her a clumsy handshake. “Sure, it’s my first time being here. I’m Melissa.”

Jules took a seat and leaned back, her presence somehow instantly putting her at ease. “So, what brings you here today?”

Melissa took a deep breath. It wasn’t easy to open up about something so personal, especially to a place full of strangers, but something about the atmosphere in the shop made her feel safe enough to try.

“Recently, I came out as bisexual,” the older woman began, trembling. “It took me years to figure it out...or maybe I knew all along, but I was just too scared to accept it because of, you know... religious guilt and family trauma.”

“That’s a huge step, Mel. Coming out, especially after carrying something like that for so long... It’s not easy. You’re brave for even being here.”

Encouraged by understanding, she continued, though her words still came out haltingly. “I.. I’m in a relationship now, with a younger woman. She’s amazing, and I really care about her. But I’ve never been intimate with a woman before, and I... I’m so scared. I want to pleasure her, make her feel good, but I don’t know where to start. I was afraid to come here and open up about this. I thought... I thought people might laugh at me or think I’m not ‘really’ bi because I’ve never done it before.”

Jules reached across the table and placed her hand on Melissa’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring pat. “You’re definitely not alone in feeling that way. A lot of us have been where you are now. It’s completely normal to feel nervous, especially when it’s all so new. But what’s important is that you’re here, willing to learn and grow.”

The green eyed woman felt a lump forming in her throat.

“I was married too," she confessed, tinged with bitterness and pain. “My ex-husband, Joe… he was a dickhead. He was always drunk, and he cheated on me more times than I can count. I stayed with him ‘cause I thought it was the ‘right’ thing to do, you know? Because of my family, because of my faith… But it was killing me inside. I was miserable, and it took me a long time to realize that I deserved better.”

“I’m sorry you went through that,” the youngest said sincerely. "No one deserves to be treated that way. But you’re here now, and that’s what matters.”

As they spoke, Jules gave a subtle signal to a few women seated nearby. One by one, they began to gather around, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and encouragement. They formed a small semicircle, their presence a quiet testament to the power of community. Each woman seemed to carry her own story, her own struggles and triumphs, but there was no judgment here—only acceptance.

One of the women, a young woman with thoughtful eyes, spoke up first. “You know, sometimes the most important thing is to listen and learn without rushing. Every relationship is different. What works for one couple might not work for another.”

Another woman, slightly older, nodded in agreement. “And balancing personal space with intimacy is key. You have to be able to communicate openly about your needs and boundaries.”

Melissa nodded, absorbing their words like a sponge. The advice was practical, yes, but it was the honesty and openness in their voices that struck her most. They weren’t just talking at her—they were sharing pieces of themselves.

The conversation continued, flowing naturally between experiences of first loves, heartbreaks, and everything in between. They discussed how vital it was to take things slow, to be attuned to each other’s needs, to ask questions, and most of all, to approach intimacy with openness and care. Each woman offered something unique, from personal tips to deeply felt wisdom, and by the time the gathering wound down, Melissa felt an overwhelming sense of relief and empowerment.

As the women began to disperse, exchanging hugs and goodbyes, Melissa stood up from the table, feeling lighter than when she had walked in. Jules caught her eye one last time, giving her a reassuring nod.

“You’ve got this, Mel. Just remember to trust yourself, okay?”

She smiled, a genuine warmth spreading across her face for the first time that evening. “Thank you… really.”

As she stepped outside, the sun still hung low in the sky, casting everything in a warm, golden glow. For the first time in a long while, she felt hopeful. She wasn’t just carrying the weight of her past anymore—she was moving forward, armed with the knowledge, support, and confidence she’d gained from this little café and the women who had opened their hearts to her.

Melissa was ready to take the next steps in your relationship.

—

Wednesday was different for Melissa. From the moment she woke up, she could feel the weight of anticipation pressing down on her chest. After dropping her second graders—whom she affectionately called her “little eagles”—off at the gym for physical education, her day should have felt like any other. But instead, her mind raced, a nervous buzz thrumming beneath her skin. She spent the rest of the morning mentally rehearsing what she planned to say, her palms growing sweaty each time she replayed the words in her head.

By the time the lunch bell rang, her resolve had formed, but her body still trembled as she made her way to the cafeteria. She spotted you immediately, seated at a table with Jacob and Janine. The three of you were deep in discussion, laughing about the success of the recent library program project. The sound of your laughter, bright and carefree, made Melissa’s heart flutter. It grounded her, reminding her of why she wanted to do this in the first place.

But as she approached, her heart raced, and the familiar anxiety crept back in. What if she said the wrong thing? What if you didn’t want the same things she did? She had planned something special for the two of you tonight, something that would show you just how much she cared. She just hoped she wouldn’t trip over now that she was so close to making it real.

You were in the middle of recounting a funny story about one of your students when your gaze shifted, and you saw her walking toward the table. Instantly, your surroundings blurred; the laughter and conversation between Jacob and Janine faded into a distant hum as your focus zeroed in on her. Melissa wasn’t often nervous, but there was something in the way she carried herself now—vulnerable yet brave—that made your heart swell with affection.

She hesitated for a moment, standing a few feet away. Her green eyes flicked to the floor as though she was searching for the right words. Her hands, you noticed, were fidgeting at the hem of her blouse, tracing the fabric as if seeking comfort. She drew in a breath before speaking, her voice soft but laced with determination.

“I, um… I planned a romantic dinner for us tonight.” She was cautious, almost tentative. “Would you be able to come over to my place at seven, hon?”

Your heart warmed at her nervousness, and you gave her a soft, reassuring smile. “Of course, babe. I’d love to.” The tenderness in your tone seemed to ease her tension, and you couldn’t help but add. “Do you want me to bring anything? A bottle of your favorite white wine or—”

“No, just you and your beautiful body,” The second the words left her lips, her face flushed a deep, fiery red, the color climbing up her neck and spreading across her cheeks. Her hand flew up to cover her mouth as her eyes went wide in shock at her own boldness. It was as if she couldn’t believe what she’d just said, and the mortification was clear in the way her shoulders tensed. “Oh?”

Jacob and Janine, who had been standing just far enough away to give you both some privacy, exchanged a quick glance. Janine, ever the romantic, stifled a squeal of excitement, biting her hand to keep from bursting into giddy laughter. Jacob, always the supportive friend, gave Melissa a discreet thumbs-up, mouthing.“You’ve got this. Just breathe, Mel Mel.” Their silent gestures of support didn’t go unnoticed by Melissa, and despite the fiery embarrassment burning in her cheeks, she felt a rush of warmth and gratitude.

You, too, caught the brief exchange between your friends and chuckled, though your gaze quickly returned to Melissa. There was no mistaking the anxiety in her posture, but beyond that, you could see the flicker of something else—determination, excitement, maybe even hope. She was putting herself out there, more than she usually allowed herself to, and that touched you deeply.

Just me and my body, huh?” you teased gently. “That’s quite the invitation, Schemmenti. What’s the occasion?”

Melissa’s face, already flushed, deepened into an even darker shade of red, but there was a spark in her eyes now, a glimmer of resolve. She was nervous, yes, but she had made her decision. “I just thought it was time to switch things up a bit,” she replied, her voice steadier than before, though still laced with vulnerability. “You know, take a leap and maybe… celebrate us.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. This wasn’t just about a dinner; this was about moving forward, about her desire to deepen your relationship. You could see how much this moment mattered to her—the courage it took to say those words, to open herself up to the possibility of rejection, even if that fear was unfounded. You stood up and closed the distance between you. Without hesitation, you wrapped her in a tender hug, your arms encircling her in a protective embrace.

She stiffened for a moment, caught off guard by the sudden display of affection, especially in such a public setting. But as soon as she felt your warmth enveloping her, she relaxed, melting into your arms as if this was exactly where she was meant to be. The proximity, the way you held her so tightly yet so gently, made her realize how deeply she needed this, needed you.

“Baby, that sounds perfect,” you whispered softly, your breath warm against her ear. “I can’t wait for tonight.”

Melissa’s hold on you tightened as she buried her face in the crook of your neck, the anxiety that had gnawed at her all day slowly ebbing away. She pressed a soft kiss to your hair, the gesture filled with such tenderness it made your heart ache. With your bodies pressed together, she could feel the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against hers, the calming syncopation reminding her that she was exactly where she belonged.

As you held her, you caught a glimpse of Janine and Jacob, who were watching from a distance with proud smiles. Janine gave Jacob a giddy nudge, her spirit high and full of excitement for you both. Even Mr. Johnson, who was still sweeping the cafeteria floor nearby, muttered something about “first love making messes,” though there was a small, almost imperceptible grin on his face.

Eventually, you pulled back just enough to look at her, your hands resting on her arms. “So, what’s on the menu tonight?” you asked, with playful curiosity. “I’m guessing it’s not just spaghetti and meatballs.”

Melissa’s lips twitched, the nervousness in her eyes slowly giving way to something warmer, more confident. “You’ll just have to wait and see,” she said, her voice teasing now. “But I can promise you, it’s going to be unforgettable.”

You grinned at her, the excitement for tonight bubbling up in your chest. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

As you stepped back and returned to your spot, Melissa lingered for a moment, watching you with a cute, almost dreamy expression on her face. The weight of the day’s nerves had finally lifted, replaced by a sense of joy and anticipation. With one last glance at you, she turned and headed back to her classroom, her heart feeling lighter than it had in months.

“You two are seriously the cutest couple ever,” Janine gushed, nudging you with her elbow as she sat back down.

Jacob nodded in agreement, a small, knowing smirk on his face. “She’s a lucky woman.”

You felt your face flush with warmth as you beamed softly, your thoughts already drifting to the evening ahead. “I’m the lucky one,” you murmured, more to yourself than to them.

—

The soft glow of candles flickered across the kitchen, casting gentle shadows that danced on the walls. Melissa had taken great care to set the table just right. The white linen tablecloth was smooth and immaculate, the polished silverware gleamed under the dim light, and delicate crystal glasses sparkled like tiny stars. A simple yet elegant centerpiece—a vase filled with fresh roses—added a touch of romance, their soft petals a gentle reminder of the evening’s purpose.

After a quick shower, Melissa stood in front of her bathroom mirror, wrapped in a thick towel as her reflection stared back at her. She untangled her hair with her fingers, letting the soft waves settle naturally around her shoulders. The evening felt charged with meaning, and as she pulled on a deep green dress that highlighted the rich color of her eyes, she couldn’t shake a sense of anticipation that made her fingers tremble. But before she slipped into the dress, Melissa lingered in her reflection, standing there in her bra and underwear.

Her fingers brushed lightly over the delicate lace of her bra before trailing up to her cross necklace. The small, familiar weight of it rested against her skin, a reminder of her faith and the strength she often sought from it. She gently kissed the cross, her lips touching the cool metal, as if grounding herself. Closing her eyes for a moment, she whispered, “I’ll be okay.” Her voice was steady, a quiet promise to herself. When she opened her eyes again, a small smile tugged at the corners of her lips. She was ready—nervous, yes, but there was an undeniable sense of purpose in the evening that outweighed her fears.

The act of kissing her necklace and reminding herself that she would be okay brought a small but real sense of calm. She unclenched her jaw, letting herself breathe before stepping away from the mirror to pull on the deep green dress she had picked out.

Slipping into the dress, Melissa took one last look at herself, smoothing down the fabric and adjusting the straps. It wasn’t an extravagant gown—just a simple dress that made her feel beautiful in a way that mattered most to her. It hugged her curves in all the right places, the fabric complementing her fiery red hair and highlighting the vibrancy of her eyes. She added a light touch of makeup, just enough to enhance her natural features, before stepping back to admire the final result. A moment of calm settled over her, the flicker of nerves tempered by the reassurance she had given herself.

The house was filled with the mouthwatering aroma of lasagna, garlic, tomatoes, and bubbling cheese coming together in the oven. The familiar, comforting smells filled every corner of the room, making it feel warm, welcoming. Melissa stepped into the kitchen, checking on the lasagna and adjusting the heat, ensuring everything was perfect. The faint sound of the record player drifted in from the living room, where a playlist of your favorite songs played softly, romantic melodies filling the air with warmth and intimacy. Everything was set, and now, all she needed was for you to arrive.

The doorbell rang, cutting through the quiet with a soft chime, and Melissa’s heart skipped a beat. She stood still for a moment, gathering her courage. This evening wasn’t just about the food or the setting—it was about the leap she was taking, the love she wanted to show you. Taking a deep breath, she smoothed her dress once more and made her way to the door. As her hand reached for the doorknob, she murmured to herself, “I’ll be okay,” one last time, her fingers briefly touching the cross around her neck.

When she opened the door and saw you standing there, her nerves melted away at the sight of your smile. You looked at her, taking in the beautiful green dress, her soft waves of hair, and the way her eyes shone with a mixture of happiness and vulnerability. There was a beat of silence, the world falling away for a moment as you exchanged a quiet, meaningful look.

“Hey, babe,” you said warmly, stepping forward and pulling her into a gentle hug. You could feel the slight tremble in her body as she relaxed into your embrace, her arms wrapping around you as if she had been waiting for this all day.

“Hey, mia principessa,” she whispered back softly, but there was a strength in it. You could sense how much this night meant to her, how much she wanted it to be special. “Come in. I’ve got everything ready.”

The smell of lasagna welcomed you as you stepped into the cozy warmth of her home. You glanced around, admiring the thoughtful touches—the candlelit table, the vase of roses, the soft music filling the space. It was intimate, and it spoke volumes about the care she had put into this night.

“Lissa, this is beautiful,” you said, turning back to her. “You did all of this?”

Melissa smiled, the nervous energy that had been building inside her easing just a little at your reaction. “Yeah, I wanted to do something special for us.”

You reached out, taking her hand and giving it a gentle peck. “It’s perfect.”

For the first time that evening, your girlfriend felt a deep sense of calm.

You followed Melissa to the dining table, where the soft glow of the candles illuminated the spread before you. The lasagna sat perfectly golden in its dish, steam rising from the surface, and the fresh roses at the center of the table filled the air with their delicate scent. She pulled out a chair for you, her hand brushing against your shoulder as you sat down.

The older woman served the lasagna with careful hands, the utensils clinking against the plates as she handed you your portion. As you took your first bite, the rich flavors of garlic, tomato, and cheese filled your mouth, and you couldn’t help but close your eyes for a second to savor it.

“This is delicious, Mel,” you said, smiling up at her as you set your fork down.

“I’m glad you like it,” she replied sweetly, still carrying that undercurrent of vulnerability that made your heart swell with affection. You could see how much she wanted tonight to be perfect, and it already was. The evening felt like a beautiful, slow unfolding of something deeper, something you both had been moving toward for a long time.

For a while, you ate in companionable silence, the music playing in the background as the evening settled into a comfortable rhythm. Melissa stole glances at you as you ate, and each time your eyes met, she smiled a little more freely. But there was something else too—an sexual tension hanging in the air between you, unspoken but unmistakable. It made every touch and every shared look feel heavier, more charged.

After a while, Melissa set her fork down, her fingers lightly tracing the edge of her wine glass as she spoke, quieter now. “There’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while…” Her eyes lifted to meet yours, and you could see the seriousness in them.

You frowned, sensing the shift in the conversation. “What is it?”

“I’ve been… I’ve been wanting to take the next step with us. I’m ready. For sex.”

The weight of her confession settled between you, and for a second, it felt like the world outside this moment ceased to exist. Your heart skipped a beat, the meaning behind her words sinking in. You knew how much this meant to her, how deeply she felt things, and how careful she was with every step in your relationship. And now, here she was, opening herself up, offering all of her to you in the most vulnerable way possible.

You reached across the table, your fingers finding hers, and she held onto you like she’d been waiting for this connection all night. “Mel,” you began. “I’ve been waiting for you to be ready. I’m here. I’ll always wait for you.”

A soft laugh touched her lips, her thumb brushing over your knuckles as she held your gaze. “I know,” she whispered, and then, as if the moment couldn’t hold itself back any longer, she leaned across the table and kissed you. Her lips were soft, warm, and full of promise. The kiss started gentle, but there was a sense of urgency behind it, a need she had been holding back for too long.

You stood up, gently pulling her with you, and without breaking the kiss, she wrapped her arms around your waist. The closeness felt intoxicating, the room spinning with the scent of roses, the warmth of the candlelight, and the taste of wine still on her lips.

Melissa pulled back slightly. “Come upstairs with me.”

You nodded, unable to speak, the weight of the moment settling in your chest. With her hand in yours, she led you out of the dining room and up the stairs, her grip firm but trembling ever so slightly. The steps felt endless, each one echoing the rapid beating of your heart, but when you reached the bedroom door, everything else faded away. It was just you and her, the world quiet and still, as if this moment had been waiting for you both for a long time.

After going upstairs hand in hand, you enter her bedroom. The environment is spacious and welcoming, with a palette of neutral tones that creates a soft and intimate atmosphere. The walls are painted a light, almost sandy beige, and there are several old photo frames hanging in an elegant pattern. The floor is covered in a large, shaggy rug in a soft brown tone that provides a pleasant contrast to the dark wooden floor.

The center of the room is dominated by a king size bed, covered with sheets and bedding set in beige tones. The pillows and duvet combine in different textures and subtle patterns, creating a feeling of comfort and simplicity.

You lay down on the bed, messing up the bedding set and pillowcases that were still fresh and spotless. Melissa sat on top of you, with her knees on either side of your hips, and began to unbutton the elegant blouse you were wearing. Her movement was careful, almost reverent, as if each blossoming bud revealed not just your skin, but also the vulnerability and trust you were building together.

“I’ve never looked like that,” she leaned in closer, her lips brushing against your own in a long kiss that was both hesitant and eager. As her mouth lingered on yours, she noticed the way you slightly shudder beneath her touch, a clear sign of your nervousness. And how anxious you seemed, more so than she felt herself. “You’re trembling.”

Melissa reaches for the lamp, her digits brushing against its switch as she considers dimming the light to make the room more comfortable and less intimidating. But before she can, you reach out to stop her, grabbing her wrist feeling the subtle pulse of her beat beneath your touch.

“No, I want to see you too,” you peel off your blouse, followed by your pants and underwear, letting them fall to the floor in a silent haze.

The older woman gulps and bobs her throat and starts to undress too. Her long green dress fell away in soft folds to the edge of the king size bed, followed by the delicate unfastening of her bra, revealing her full, supple and delicious boobs. Their natural weight makes them sway slightly and her nipples, a dusky rose, stood erect in the cool air. Her panties followed, slipping down her legs to reveal her glistening, damp center with some reddish, slightly trimmed pubic hair above her mound that was a stark contrast to the smooth milky white of her thighs.

For a fleeting second, doubt and insecurity crept in. She wondered if you saw her as beautiful or if the passage of time, with its subtle marks on her skin—fine lines around her eyes and mouth, the gentle curve of age. Arms flaccid and a little droopy, and the fact that she is not completely shaved underneath—might be off-putting. The decades that had shaped her were etched into her form, a testament to experiences and moments lived, but she questioned if they would overshadow the intimacy of the present.

She hesitated, her gaze dropping to the side, overwhelmed by the thought of you finding her less than desirable, maybe even disgusting like Joe did when they used to have sex in their marriage years. The idea of her imperfections being too much to bear made her shiver with apprehension, and unexpected tears dropped into her cheeks as those thoughts almost brought her to the brink of crying.

In that vulnerable instant, Melissa searched for any sign of disapproval, any hint that the years might have dimmed her allure. But as your gaze locked with hers, she saw something entirely different—an intense, unspoken admiration, a hunger that seemed to pierce through her insecurities. This recognition of her allure gave her the courage to continue.

“You’re so beautiful, bambina.” She tilted her head, her swollen lips meeting yours again in a passionate kiss that deepened as she felt your response. Your hands roamed over her back, feeling the heat of her skin and the subtle firmness of her muscles. Her auburn hair fell around her shoulders, cascading like a dark waterfall that framed her face and partially covered her chest. The sight of her, disheveled and beautiful, made you catch your oxygen.

Melissa lets her thumbs glide down your abdomen, feeling the softness of your flesh beneath her fingertips while she trails imaginary patterns. That only she can see. She squeezes your breasts gently before she leans in to nip at your earlobe. There’s a hunger in the way she worships you, a need to feel you, to taste you.

She begins to kiss her way down your neck, her lips leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. When she reaches your boobs, she pauses for a moment, her breath ghosting over your nipples before she takes one into her mouth slowly. The feeling sends a shiver down your body, and you can’t help the loud whimper that escapes your lips.

“That feels so good. Don’t stop. Suck harder,” you gasped, unable to contain the fervent need building inside you.

The redhead hums in response, her gaze locked onto yours as she continues to suckle on your hardened peak. There’s something almost reverent in the way she’s looking at you, as though she’s in awe of the effect she’s having on you. Her hair, now tousled and wild, brushed against your skin like a silken curtain. You closed your eyes, savoring the feeling of her lips on your sensitive areas, and opened your mouth to draw in deep, steady breaths, trying to ground yourself amidst the swirling sensations.

She traces a slow, deliberate path down your body, her lips grazing the curve of your waist, until she’s almost between your legs. Her hands rest on your thighs, gently urging them apart, and you feel the smirk ghosting over your most intimate area. When she parted your legs, her eyes widened slightly at the sight of your wetness dripping down and the intoxicating smell that made her drool.

“Can I put my mouth on you?”

“Please.”

Melissa’s hands move to your hips, and with a deliberate, almost possessive grip, she pushes you down against the mattress, pinning you in place. The bed creaks softly beneath you, but all you can focus on is the way her mouth hovers just above your aching pussy.

She lowers herself between your thighs, her breath hot against your skin as she leans in, her mouth finally making contact. The first contact of her tongue against your wet folds is electrifying, a shiver running down your spine. She’s never felt anything like this—so raw, so intimate. The sensation of your taste, warm and sweet on her tongue, ignites something deep within her.

The older woman begins to lick through your wetness, her movements grow more confident, more assured. Her face becomes slick with your arousal, but she doesn’t care—if anything, it only drives her to delve deeper, to explore every inch of you with her warm mouth. The soft slurping and suckling sounds she makes while she eats you out, along with guttural groans of satisfaction vibrating against your most sensitive spots muffled against your folds, tell you everything; how much Melissa is enjoying this. Amplifying the pleasure coursing through you. And you can’t help but moan, your fingers tangling in her hair, urging her closer.

“Oh, Lissa…go faster,” you murmur breathy, trying to guide her with gentle encouragement. “Just like that, baby. I’m so proud of you.”

She’s teasing your clit now, her tongue flicking over it teasing it with featherlight strokes that makes your hips buck involuntarily. She seems to be memorizing, learning and responding to your every movement, every sound. You can feel her fingers hovering at your entrance, the pads of her tips brushing teasingly against your folds. The need for more—more of her, more of everything—builds inside you like a tidal wave.

“Fingers. Use them to fill me up.”

Two fingers slide inside you easily, the heat and slickness enveloping her in a way that makes her gasp. The knowledge that she’s the one making you feel this way, that she’s the cause of your pleasure, is almost overwhelming for her. She starts to pump her fingers, slow and deep, crooking them just right to hit that spot that makes you see stars.

“Fuck, hon,” Melissa groans. “You’re so tight… so fucking good.”

“Mhhm.”

The older woman intensifies her pace, her fingers moving faster, deeper, her thumb circling your clit in slow, lazy circles. Her brow furrows in concentration as she continues.

The pressure builds rapidly, and your hips buck against her hand, your need growing more urgent with every passing second. Her eyes stay locked on your face, absorbing each scream and tremor that escapes you, her lips parting slightly as she watches your pleasure build.

“You feel so good,” she murmurs, never letting up the pace. “Are you close?”

Your breath catches, the coil tightening inside you. “I’m so so close, please let me come,” you beg, your voice trembling as you ride the edge.

A flicker of confidence crosses her face as she leans closer, her thumb pressing harder against your clit, her fingers driving deeper. “Cum for me,” she whispers, laced with longing. “I want to feel you, pretty girl.”

That command, spoken so softly but filled with intent, sends you spiraling. With a final, perfect stroke, you fall over the edge, your body arching as the pleasure crashes through you, wave after wave. Your whines grow louder, desperate, as Melissa guides you through the bliss.

She keeps going, drawing out every shudder and whimper until you’re completely undone beneath her. Only then does she slowly withdraw her fingers, leaving you trembling and breathless.

Collapsing against you, her face finds the crook of your neck, her figure trembling with emotion. It takes a moment to realize she’s crying, low sobs muffled against you.

“I did it?” she breaks in disbelief. “I made you feel good… I can’t believe I did it.”

You wrap your arms around her, pulling her close. “You did, baby,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to her hair. “You were perfect.”

Melissa shakes her head slightly, still clinging to you. “I was so scared I’d mess it up… but I did it.”

You gently lift her chin, forcing her to look at you. Her emerald eyes are red and glistening with tears, but the satisfaction you see there only makes your love for her grow stronger. You cup her face in your hands, brushing your thumbs over her cheeks to wipe away the tears.

She lets out a shaky breath, her curvaceous body leaning into yours as if seeking reassurance. Her pink lips brush over yours in a tender, almost desperate kiss. Between soft pecks, you speak against her lips, “You’re safe. I love you. You're safe with me.”

She gives you a small, tearful smile before pressing kisses to your chest, resting her head there as if she never wants to let go.

And you don’t want her to. Not ever.

#melissa schemmenti x reader #lisa ann walter #melissa schemmenti x you #abbott elementary #wlw #wlw smut #yes #that was a carol (2015) reference

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bangtanhoneys · 3 months ago

Text

SEOKJIN & GRACE - IT'S TIME

Summary: Kim Bora makes an appearance in a world that's more than ready to meet her, even if it does take her 48 hours.

Warnings: mentions of birth, afterbirth, and pain. A brief mention of a sexual position.

Notes: This one has been in the Google Drive for ages and there was just something about it that told me it needed more work. Since I'm still in my writer's block, I've managed to edit it and make it work a little better. Hope you enjoy!

Grace had loved being pregnant — well, most of it.

The first trimester had been a brutal ride, marked by relentless morning sickness that made even plain rice seem intolerable.

Balancing her symptoms with BTS’s hectic schedule had been no small feat, especially with the added challenge of keeping her pregnancy a secret. Performing under dazzling stage lights while quietly battling waves of nausea had been one of the hardest things she’d ever done. Yet somehow, she powered through, plastering a smile on her face for ARMY and her members, pretending every encore and interview wasn’t a personal endurance test.

Once the news broke during her second trimester, it was like a weight had been lifted.

ARMY’s response had been overwhelming — floods of love, encouragement, and a deep protectiveness that warmed her heart. For the first time in months, she could breathe. She found herself embracing the glow everyone talked about. Her energy returned, her skin shone, and she even started enjoying the strange, hilarious quirks of pregnancy — like craving peanut butter and kimchi sandwiches at two in the morning. (Seokjin still gagged dramatically every time he remembered.)

At 25 weeks, after a lot of discussions with her doctors and BigHit’s management, the decision was made: Grace would officially step back from BTS choreography.

It was bittersweet. She understood the importance of safety for herself and the baby, but standing on the sidelines while the others rehearsed had been harder than she'd expected. Movement was in her blood. Being told to slow down had made her feel restless and adrift. Still, the boys treated her like absolute royalty — pulling her chairs, handing her snacks, and making sure she was included in everything, from planning formations to styling choices. She was never allowed to feel left out.

By 33 weeks, Grace had taken the stage one final time before her maternity leave — a special, carefully choreographed collaboration with Nicki Minaj in Seoul.

It had taken weeks of convincing management and her doctors to let her do it. They had been hesitant, understandably cautious. She had sworn, hand over her heart (and under Seokjin’s hawk-eyed supervision), that she would take every precaution. No jumps, no sudden movements, no risky lifts. Her performance was elegant and reserved, her movements measured, but it still lit up the arena. It became one of her most cherished memories, captured in fan cams and etched forever in ARMY’s hearts as a radiant, powerful goodbye-for-now.

Now, with B-Day (as the boys affectionately called it — "Birth Day") looming just around the corner, Grace felt enormous. Not just pregnant — whale sized.

At 38 weeks pregnant, every little task felt monumental. Rolling out of bed required a complicated, strategic shimmy that left Grace panting like she’d run a marathon. Getting comfortable was a fantasy. Sleep? Forget it — between the constant bathroom trips and the ache in her hips, nighttime had become a blurry cycle of tossing, turning, and sighing. Even reaching for a glass on the top shelf had become impossible without risking disaster.

Seokjin, ever the overprotective boyfriend, had adapted quickly. He began keeping a curated stash of snacks, water bottles, and essentials within arm’s reach wherever she was — on the coffee table, at her bedside, even by the bathroom — anything to stop her from attempting risky acrobatics in her whale-sized state.

The boys, still knee-deep in rehearsals for their upcoming world tour — set to kick off in six weeks in Los Angeles — texted her daily for updates. Namjoon, who had unofficially declared himself the group’s “research captain,” sent her articles, pregnancy app screenshots, and helpful-but-unnecessary advice. Yoongi sent memes. Jungkook asked if the baby could hear BTS songs yet and if he should sing louder.

After Grace’s third sleepless night of manic nesting, Seokjin had issued a firm group-wide warning: "Warning: she’s in beast mode."

Over the span of three days, Grace had scrubbed the entire house until it gleamed like a showroom, reorganised the nursery into labelled perfection, and meal-prepped enough food to survive an apocalypse. Their freezer was stuffed to bursting. The nursery had a dedicated “nappy mountain” in one corner that threatened to topple if someone sneezed.

During her latest midwife check-up, Grace finally heard the words she’d been waiting for: Bangtan Baby was in position. Her belly had noticeably dropped, the baby settling lower into her hips.

The midwife reassured them that everything looked perfect, but the news sent Seokjin into full-blown prep mode. He immediately loaded the hospital bag into the car, put both sets of parents on high alert, double-checked routes to the hospital, and even cancelled a day of schedules to stay close — until Grace and the midwife teamed up to calmly talk him down.

As Grace waddled her way into the final stretch of pregnancy, she couldn’t help but smile through the discomfort. Despite the aches, the sleeplessness, and the whale-sized belly she now carried, the anticipation of meeting their daughter made everything feel worth it. The excitement around them was electric — almost too much at times.

As the 39th week ticked over, the anticipation was almost unbearable. Every twinge, every cramp sent Seokjin scrambling toward the door with the hospital bag in hand, only for Grace to wave him off with a tired laugh.

Yet... nothing.

Their stubborn little girl seemed perfectly content to stay tucked in, cosy and unbothered, despite how uncomfortable she was making her mother. Grace spent her days bouncing on the birthing ball, walking laps around the house, and trying any trick in the book to encourage labour. Seokjin had to physically restrain himself from filming her determined bouncing, knowing she would kill him if he dared. He also wisely bit his tongue every time she marched past him, muttering about "getting this show on the road."

It was during one such lap around the living room that Grace answered a call from Chaelin of 2NE1, her longtime best friend, checking in.

"Spicy food or sex," Chaelin mused lazily through the speaker. "That’s what they say helps."

Grace, sprawled on the couch, let out a tired laugh. “If it were that easy, I’d have tried both by now.”

IU, who had just joined the FaceTime call fresh from her tour, grinned. “Why not do both at the same time?”

Chaelin snorted. “Seokjin would love that.”

Grace shook her head with a playful sigh. “I think he’d prefer to keep his curry on his plate, not… everywhere else.”

The screen was instantly filled with laughter — Chaelin nearly wheezing, IU wiping tears from her eyes, and Grace chuckling despite the ache in her back. For a little while, the conversation drifted to lighter topics — IU’s latest tour stories, Chaelin’s new project, Grace’s endless battle with pregnancy cravings.

It felt good. Normal. Safe. But outside of their banter, time kept ticking. Seconds melted into minutes. Minutes stretched into long, sleepy hours.

And then, just as Grace was bent over, refilling Min-ji’s food bowl, it happened. A sudden, unmistakable shift. A deep, pulling tightness in her belly, sharp and undeniable. The baby had dropped further.

Her breath hitched. For a second, she stayed frozen, one hand gripping the counter, the other resting on her stomach.

She knew.

It was time.

While this first contraction wasn’t painful, the backache was immense.

The contraction faded, leaving behind a deep ache in her lower back. Grace stood still for a moment, hand still gripping the counter, her mind catching up with what her body already knew. This was it.

She turned slowly, calling out, “Seokjin?”

Her voice was steady, but the second he heard it, Seokjin was there in record time, eyes

wide with barely contained panic. “What? What happened? Are you okay? Do we need to go?” His gaze darted between her face and her belly like he expected the baby to pop out right then and there.

Grace let out a small laugh, despite the lingering discomfort. “I think it’s starting.”

Seokjin’s mouth opened, then closed. His hands hovered in midair like he wasn’t sure if he should grab the hospital bag or grab her. “Are you sure? How close are the contractions? Should I time them? Should I call the doctor? Should we—”

She reached for his hand, squeezing it. “Breathe, Jinnie. It just started. We’ve got time.”

That was the first lie she’d tell herself.

For the first few hours, everything was manageable. The contractions were mild, coming and going like distant thunder, just enough to make her stop and breathe through them. Seokjin hovered like an overenthusiastic nurse, timing them religiously and helping her move around the house, on the birthing ball, updating the midwife with the news.

“Let me know when you’re heading to the hospital,” her mother, Angela, said over the phone. “Sung and I will meet you there.”

Grace wasn’t sure how her father was going to handle being around his daughter giving birth, but apparently, he had his plans ready for what he was going to do, even if he wasn’t going to be in the room.

By hour eight, the pain had sharpened, each contraction clawing deeper into her spine. They were still spaced far apart—just enough that the hospital would likely send her home—but staying here, without medical staff nearby, was starting to make her anxious. The knowledge that she was still in early labour did little to soothe her. If this was just the beginning, how was she supposed to handle the hours—maybe even days—ahead?

Seokjin must have sensed the shift in her mood because he wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. “Do you want to go anyway? Even if they send us back, at least we’ll know what’s going on.”

Grace exhaled shakily, leaning into his warmth. “Yeah… I think I’d feel better if we did.”

Seokjin nodded, pressing a kiss to the side of her head. “Okay. Let’s go.”

A quick check to make sure the cat had food and water, another check to confirm the doors were locked, and Seokjin was ready. He fired off a message to both sets of parents, letting them know they were heading to the hospital, but held off on updating the BTS group chat—he knew the moment he did, they’d flood his phone with messages when his focus needed to stay on Grace.

The drive was tense, every red light feeling like a personal attack. Seokjin kept one hand on the wheel and the other resting over Grace’s, squeezing gently each time she winced through another contraction.

By the time they pulled into the hospital car park, her parents were already waiting. Angela wasted no time, gently pulling Grace out of the car and cupping the back of her head, murmuring words of reassurance. Sung, ever the tsundere but a complete softy when it came to his daughter, rubbed her back in firm, comforting strokes. He didn’t say much, but the quiet support in his touch was enough.

“You’re doing great, sweetheart,” Angela whispered.

“Doesn’t feel like it,” Grace sighed, but she still leaned into her mother’s embrace, drawing comfort from her warmth.

Meanwhile, Sung took the hospital bag from Seokjin without a word and strode ahead, heading straight inside to alert reception that his daughter had arrived. For all his gruffness, he was a man on a mission.

From the moment they stepped through the doors, it was clear they were receiving five-star treatment. There was no waiting, no tedious paperwork delays—just a seamless transition as the staff led them straight to their private suite.

And what a suite it was.

It felt less like a hospital room and more like a luxury penthouse. A small living area with plush seating, a kitchenette stocked with essentials, and a spacious bathroom ensured maximum comfort. The birthing bed was state-of-the-art, positioned near a large window with a view of the city skyline, and in the corner of the room, a birthing pool sat ready if needed. Every possible necessity—and then some—had been accounted for, creating the perfect environment for bringing their daughter into the world.

“Well,” Seokjin murmured, closing the door behind them. “If you’re going to suffer through labour, at least we’ll be suffering in style.”

A soft knock at the door interrupted them as her midwife—a warm and experienced Korean-American woman—stepped inside, followed closely by the doctor, a composed and professional Korean man.

“Good timing,” the midwife said with an easy smile. “Let’s get you settled and see how things are progressing, hmm?”

Grace nodded tiredly, already bracing for the bad news.

Moments later, the nurse straightened and gave her an apologetic look. “You’re at five centimetres. Making progress, but it’s still going to take time.”

Grace groaned, flopping back against the pillows. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The midwife and doctor made a few notes in her chart, then set about hooking her up to the various monitors: fetal heart rate, contraction strength, and her own vital signs. The room buzzed quietly with the hum of machinery and the occasional muted beeps.

And then... time seemed to stretch and blur.

Forty-eight hours.

Two full days of contractions that came and went in cruel, teasing waves. Two days of nurses checking in, adjusting monitors, offering words of encouragement that started to sound the same. Two days of shifting positions, rocking on the birthing ball, soaking in the tub, walking laps around the room, anything to coax labor into speeding up. Two days of exhaustion so deep it felt like she was drowning in it.

Grace wanted to sleep more than anything — just five uninterrupted minutes of sleep — but her body wouldn't let her. Every time she drifted, another contraction would tighten her belly like a vice and drag her back to the surface.

And food. God, she wanted food. Not the ice chips the nurses kept offering her.

No.

She wanted a greasy, dripping cheeseburger with extra pickles, a mountain of curly fries smothered in bright yellow cheese, and an ice-cold, fizzy cola that would burn her throat in the best way. At this point, even the questionable hospital pudding on the side table was starting to look gourmet.

But eating was strictly forbidden since active labor had begun, and Grace could only dream about food in between groaning through each tightening wave.

She felt a surge of guilt for Seokjin and her mother, who had been with her without pause since she first arrived at the hospital.

Her father had been sent home earlier to look after Min-Ji, their beloved cat, but he hadn't stayed out of touch for long — calling every thirty minutes like clockwork for updates, his worry bleeding through every word. The boys had been updated too, but only in vague terms: contractions had started, but nothing official, nothing to get too excited about just yet.

Not yet.

Grace shifted uncomfortably, rolling onto her side with a frustrated sigh. The steady beeping of the monitors, the hum of hospital machinery, the soft creak of Seokjin adjusting in his chair — all of it filled the quiet room, a stark contrast to the violent storm raging inside her body.

Seokjin immediately reached for her hand, rubbing slow, soothing circles against her palm with his thumb.

"You're doing amazing," he murmured, his voice hoarse with exhaustion but still full of unwavering love.

Grace shot him a half-hearted glare. "I don’t feel amazing. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. Repeatedly."

Her mother chuckled softly, brushing damp strands of hair away from Grace’s sweaty forehead with a tender hand. "I know it’s hard, sweetheart," Angela said gently, "but you’re strong. And she’ll be here soon."

Grace let out a sceptical hum. "Define ‘soon.’ Because at this rate, she might be old enough to walk out on her own."

The midwife — a steady, calming presence throughout the ordeal — smiled knowingly. "First babies do like to take their time," she said with a soft laugh.

Grace groaned again, squeezing Seokjin’s hand harder as another contraction built up, the pressure like a tidal wave squeezing her spine and hips into a tight, burning knot.

She tried to breathe through it, just as they had practised for months, but no amount of breathing drills or visualisations could truly prepare her for the brutal reality of it. Seokjin whispered quiet encouragements — words she could barely hear through the white noise of pain — while his free hand rubbed gentle circles along her back, grounding her.

The contraction peaked, sharp and unrelenting, before finally, finally ebbing away, leaving her gasping for breath and sagging back against the pillows.

"That one was stronger," she panted, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. "Tell me that means something."

The doctor checked the monitors, scanning the data with careful eyes before offering a small nod. "It does," he said. "Things are progressing."

Grace clung desperately to that sliver of hope, even as her body screamed in protest and exhaustion wrapped its heavy arms around her. She didn’t know how much more she could take.

Her mother and Seokjin had been her rocks through every gruelling hour — an unshakable team, refusing to leave her side even as the hours dragged endlessly on. They took turns sitting at her bedside, massaging aching muscles, helping her shift positions when her hips locked up, pacing the room with her when walking seemed like the only thing that might coax the baby downward.

They lifted her legs when they cramped, rubbed her back when she sobbed through the harder contractions, and guided her gently but firmly to the bathroom during the rare breaks between waves. Grace didn’t know what she would have done without them.

She didn’t want to know.

The hours blurred together in a haze of pain, exhaustion, and fleeting moments of fragile relief. Each contraction pulled her deeper into a well of fatigue, her body straining under the brutal, relentless weight of labour. Time no longer made sense — minutes, hours, maybe even another full day slipped through her fingers like water.

But somewhere, through the fog, she could hear the midwife’s voice, calm but certain, and the doctor’s steady murmurs, and she knew that things were starting to shift.

Seokjin pressed a damp cloth to her forehead, his thumb brushing over her temple in slow, comforting strokes. “You’re doing amazing,” he whispered, his voice warm and steady despite the worry in his eyes. “Just a little longer.”

Grace let out a weak laugh. “You’ve been saying that for hours.”

The midwife checked her progress again, and this time, her smile widened. “You’re at nine centimetres now. Almost there.”

Finally!

Seokjin let out a breathless laugh of relief, running a hand over his tired face. That news meant more than the midwife could possibly realise. With shaky hands, he grabbed his phone and quickly typed out the message the boys and Bang PD had been waiting for:

Action stations! Baby Bangtan has started its descent.

The response was immediate, despite the fact that the boys were still deep in practice.

Messages flooded in within seconds, a chaotic rush of excitement, nerves, and encouragement:

"Finally!!!" "You got this, hyung! Tell Grace we're cheering her on!" "Keep us posted! We need play-by-play updates!!" "THIS IS NOT A DRILL. BABY BANGTAN INCOMING."

Taehyung’s reply came laced with clapping emojis and about ten baby bottles, while Jungkook sent a video of him running laps around the studio screaming “LET’S GOOOOO!!!”

Bang PD’s reply arrived a little later — understandable, considering he had just landed back in Seoul an hour ago — but his message was just as heartfelt:

"I just touched down, but I'm watching my phone like a hawk. Keep me updated!"

Seokjin barely had time to start drafting a response before the monitors around them spiked sharply. A contraction that had Grace nearly doubling over in pain. The sharp, unrelenting pressure had the medical team springing into action.

The doctor, already pulling on his gloves, checked her again before giving an approving nod.

"Alright, you’re at ten centimetres. It’s time to get prepped." His tone was calm, reassuring, but firm with the undercurrent of urgency. "Don’t push until we tell you to."

Grace shot him a look that was equal parts bone-deep exhaustion and barely restrained frustration — somewhere between wanting to punch him and passing out on the spot.

The room, once so spacious and luxurious, suddenly felt impossibly small as the team moved into position. One doctor, the midwife, and six nurses — each one with a role, each one laser-focused on the task of bringing their daughter safely into the world.

They carefully helped Grace shift into a position she could manage — kneeling on the bed with a towel beneath her, bracing her elbows and forearms against the mattress for support. It was raw, instinctive, the way her body demanded she move.

Her hands never left Seokjin’s, her fingers gripping his so tightly her knuckles turned white. Seokjin, practically sprawled across the bed to stay close, pressed his forehead gently against hers — grounding her, steadying her against the tidal wave of pain that was only just beginning.

Behind her, her mother stood silently, one steady hand resting on Grace’s lower back, a calm, unshakable presence through the chaos.

The hum of activity faded slightly in Grace’s mind, narrowed down to the burning pain, the breathless anticipation, and the warmth of Seokjin’s forehead pressed against hers.

Through a sharp exhale, Grace let out a breathless, wry chuckle. "Isn’t this the position that got us into this trouble?"

Seokjin let out a half-choked, strained laugh, pressing a kiss to her damp hair. "Jagiya," he whispered, barely holding it together, "maybe don’t bring that up in front of your eomma."

Angela scoffed, her voice warm with amusement. “Please, I’ve heard worse.”

The brief moment of levity lifted some of the weight in the room, but the next contraction ripped through Grace like fire, stealing her breath and any trace of humour.

“Alright, Grace,” the doctor said, his voice calm but firm. “When you feel the pressure, I want you to push. Take it slow—we need to do this in stages, even though I know you’ll want to just get it over with. Ready?”

There was no time to nod, no time to process—her body had already decided for her. Instinct took over as the next wave of pressure crashed through her, raw and unstoppable.

She felt everything and nothing all at once. Fire in her veins, numbness in her limbs. It was as if she had stepped outside herself, her body moving with a knowledge far older than thought, far deeper than pain. She wasn’t in control, but somehow, she didn’t need to be.

And then—

A cry.

Sharp, piercing, the most beautiful sound in the world.

Grace barely registered the relieved murmurs from the medical team or the blur of movement as nurses rushed to check vitals and clear airways.

The only thing she could hear — the only thing that mattered — was that tiny, perfect cry.

A sound that shattered the agony, the fear, the exhaustion of the last forty-eight hours… and replaced it with something indescribable.

Their daughter was here.

The weight of labour — of every contraction, every breathless hour, every silent prayer— drained from Grace’s body in an instant, leaving her utterly spent. Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes as her body sagged against the bed, too exhausted to lift her head but too full of emotion to rest.

Seokjin was already at her side, pressing frantic, tearful kisses to her temple, her cheeks, her damp forehead. His hands trembled against hers, voice broken with joy as he whispered her name again and again like a mantra.

Her mother stayed close, arms wrapped around Grace’s shoulders, holding her upright with quiet strength. The kind of strength only mothers understood.

Grace wanted to see her, to hold her, to breathe her in — but for a long moment, all she could do was lie there, trembling with exhaustion, and wait for the moment she had been longing for.

And then, there she was. In her newborn, wrinkled, perfect glory, wrapped loosely in a soft white blanket, eyes squeezed shut, mouth pursed in protest. A nurse carefully leaned in and gently pressed the tiny bundle to Grace’s chest.

The warmth was instant. The weight — small, impossibly small — settled against her skin like something sacred. And just like that, the room came into sharp focus.

Grace let out a choked, breathless laugh, one hand already curling protectively around the tiny back.

“We did it,” she whispered, her voice thick with awe, feeling those impossibly small fingers flex against her collarbone and Seokjin’s forehead rest gently against hers, his silent tears warm against her skin.

Around them, the medical team moved with quiet efficiency — tidying up, tending to the afterbirth, checking monitors — but it all faded into background noise. The only thing that existed in Grace’s world was the tiny, soft miracle in her arms.

Several pairs of hands moved in carefully, gently helping her ease back onto the bed with measured precision.

Grace barely noticed.

Her entire being was focused on the warm, perfect weight of her daughter curled against her chest, her own heartbeat syncing with the soft, rhythmic breaths of new life.

“Okay,” the midwife said after a few minutes, smiling with a mix of relief and joy. “We just need to take her for a moment to do some checks and get her cleaned up.” She paused, then added with a gentle grin, “And we need to clean you up too, eomma.”

Grace hesitated. Her arms instinctively tightened around her daughter, lips brushing against the soft fuzz of her baby’s hair. The thought of letting go — even for a moment — brought a sharp pang to her chest.

But the midwife’s voice remained soft and kind, full of understanding. “I promise,” she said, reaching out with both hands. “Just a few minutes. She’ll be right back.”

Grace looked down at the precious little face nestled against her, then slowly nodded. “Okay,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “But make it fast.”

Seokjin, sitting beside her, placed a soft kiss on Grace’s damp forehead. “She’ll be right back, love,” he murmured. His voice was thick with emotion, his eyes never leaving their daughter.

Reluctantly, Grace nodded, pressing one last lingering kiss to her daughter’s soft head before allowing the midwife to take her. The moment the baby left her arms, an ache settled in her chest—she already missed the warmth, the tiny weight that had felt so perfectly right against her.

As the midwife carried their daughter away, two nurses stepped in to help freshen Grace up, working with gentle efficiency. Angela stayed close, offering quiet reassurance, while Seokjin slipped outside to call Grace’s father and then his own parents. His voice, thick with emotion, wavered as he blubbered over the phone, barely managing to get the words out—she’s here, she’s finally here.

As Grace sank back into the pillows, exhaustion settling deep in her bones, she let the distant sound of Seokjin’s voice drift over her. His overwhelming joy, thick with emotion, made her smile despite the lingering tremors in her body. Angela sat beside her, brushing a damp strand of hair from her face with a touch full of love and understanding.

“You were incredible,” Angela murmured, giving her hand a firm, reassuring squeeze. “I’m so proud of you.”

She pressed a gentle kiss to Grace’s forehead, only to laugh when she felt warm tears against her skin.

Grace exhaled shakily, leaning into her mother’s embrace. “Thank you, Mum,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I don’t think I could have done this without you.”

Angela held her a little tighter, resting her cheek against Grace’s head. “You would have,” she assured softly. “Because you’re strong, just like your daughter will be.”

Grace let out a tired laugh, the thought settling in her heart like a warm glow. “She’s so perfect, Mum,” she whispered, blinking up at Angela. “I still can’t believe she’s real.”

Angela smiled, her eyes twinkling. “She is. And she’s yours.”

Before Grace could respond, the door creaked open, and Seokjin stepped back inside, his eyes red-rimmed but sparkling with happiness. “They’re all over the moon,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “Your dad, my parents… everyone.” He sniffed and ran a hand through his hair before coming to sit on the edge of the bed. “Your Dad is on his way back and my parents are on the way.”

The door opened once more, and the midwife returned, cradling their daughter in her arms. “Someone’s ready to come back to her eomma and appa,” she said warmly, her voice full of affection.

Seokjin moved instinctively, about to stand — but Grace reached out and caught his wrist, laughing softly despite the fatigue in her bones. “Where are you going?”

The midwife smiled and walked around the bed, just as Angela slipped out to go and wait for her husband, then gently placed the swaddled baby into Seokjin’s arms. He froze for half a second, breath catching in his throat as he looked down at the tiny bundle resting against him — their daughter, wrapped snugly, her eyes blinking open just enough to see the man who already loved her beyond reason.

“Right,” the midwife added with a grin. “I just need to do some paperwork, and then I’ll leave you all to it.”

But Seokjin barely heard her.

Because in that moment — holding his daughter for the first time, warm and impossibly small, her heartbeat a soft echo against his chest — the rest of the world quietly faded away.

Grace watched him, her heart so full it ached. The way he looked at their daughter, like she was both a miracle and a promise, melted every exhausted thought in her mind.

He shifted slightly, lowering himself back onto the bed beside her, cradling their daughter carefully between them. Grace reached out, brushing one finger down her baby's tiny cheek, and then rested her head on Seokjin’s shoulder.

“She’s really here,” she whispered.

Seokjin nodded slowly, eyes still locked on their daughter.

“She’s perfect,” he said softly, reverently. “Just like you.”

Grace let out a tired laugh and closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in the scent of newborn skin, feeling Seokjin’s heartbeat against her temple, and the comforting weight of their daughter between them. This was it.

Not the end, but the beginning — of sleepless nights, of quiet lullabies, of firsts and forever. Of family.

And in that quiet hospital room, as Seoul twinkled outside the window and morning crept gently over the horizon, Grace smiled.

Because after so long, hiding her relationship with Seokjin from the world, juggling the demands of life as both BTS’s only female member and a solo artist, living between spotlight and secrecy, after that quiet, breathless moment staring down at a positive pregnancy test, heart pounding with fear and hope, it had been the longest, most winding road.

And now she was here — their daughter.

Their Bora.

#bts 8th member #bts eighth member #bts additional member #bts female member #bts fic #bts fanfiction #bangtanbabybora

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angelwings-crossbowstrings · 2 years ago

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Chapter 6

Series Masterlist

Warnings: Typical TWD violence and gore, allusions to suicide, morning sickness.

A/N: Okay, I screwed up on some of the timeline. I made a change in chapters 1 and 2 that reader and Daryl met up every 3 days instead of every 6. Also, I adjusted the amount of time between Rick waking up and actually making it to Atlanta. So instead of it being about 9 weeks into the outbreak, we’re about 12-13 weeks in when they are at the CDC. Rick’s timeline was really the only one I could work with, so I hope to hell it makes sense now. Anyway, on with the show!

Moodboard by @dannyo000 💙

Morning came way too quickly. In an environment where you should have felt at ease and been able to get restful sleep, you were a wreck. After fleeing Daryl’s room, you spent a long while curled up on the bed, folded into yourself as tightly as physically possible. You cried until you were exhausted, your eyes red and sore. In the end, sleep was not merciful enough to take you.

When the wall you were staring at began to distort and move, you finally deemed it necessary to leave the bed and force yourself to shower. You felt dirty. You had responded so vehemently to Daryl’s advances, quick to repudiate the pressing matter that would most certainly only continue to grow. You couldn’t blame the hunter for your actions.

With the water running and steam filling the small bathroom, you shed your clothing and stepped beneath the spray. It had been months without a proper shower, the water itself feeling like heaven against your skin. You hadn’t even realized how filthy you truly were until you saw the grimy water swirling at your feet. Scrubbing your skin was something you decided to savor; the same with washing your hair. You shampooed it twice before deciding you had probably abused the hot water rule and reluctantly shut it off.

The air in the bathroom was humid, still steamy, which made it a little less shocking to step out of the stall. After toweling yourself off, you wiped off the mirror with your hand, taking in your reflection. Circles under your eyes and a more angular look to your face; not sleeping and eating less and less as the world continued to deteriorate.

The mirror was small so you had to step back to get a look at your body, taking stock of things you hadn’t noticed while in a state of constant stress and fear. Your breasts were tender, but Daryl hadn’t exactly been gentle with them the night before. Other than that, nothing appeared different that could be blamed on pregnancy. You had definitely lost weight as you examined your stomach. Trying to track the days in your head without your calendar, you eventually estimated that you were only about 7 weeks. You would need some sort of book or would eventually need to ask Lori or Carol about the changes you could expect.

But that would mean telling them.

As you dressed, you wondered how long you might be able to hide it, assuming Daryl wouldn’t want his comrades to know since even giving them your name had been privileged information as far as he was concerned.

You left your room as quietly as possible, figuring it was really too early for anyone else to be awake. They would all probably sleep in now that they had the chance. You left your boots off, padding barefoot through the halls to the kitchen. Maybe there was some tea that would help settle your nervous stomach. It was dark, the lights off to conserve power. Pursing your lips, you looked toward the ceiling, feeling a bit ridiculous.

“VI, could you turn on the lights?”

The response was immediate with soft lighting chasing away the shadows in the room. You raised your brows in shock that the system had operated for you.

The kitchen was well stocked but you settled with some black tea and an apple. You probably wouldn’t be able to keep anything else down with the relentless nausea. Was this the result of stress or could it be morning sickness?

The silence and solitude helped more than you could have imagined, but all too soon, people began to shuffle in. Most of them appeared to be hung over, especially poor Glenn. To your surprise, almost everyone greeted you and asked how you slept. You dodged the question with a shrug each time. They seemed content with that and moved on to the next person.

T-Dog came into the cooking area and began digging through the contents of each cabinet and then the refrigerator, obviously intending to make something either for himself or perhaps for everyone. Carol came around to start coffee, offering you a squeeze to the bicep and a gentle smile that you returned.

You were nearly finished with your tea when the smell wafted through the air, sending your stomach into a revolt. You were quick to cover your mouth and nose, spinning to find T-Dog scrambling eggs. You audibly gagged before your feet moved of their own accord, carrying you quickly toward the door. To make matters worse, you had to bodily maneuver past Daryl to make your escape toward the privacy of your room.

Your meager breakfast was flushed down, the act of bringing it up leaving you more exhausted than you had already been. Maybe spending the day in bed wouldn’t be such a terrible thing.

You crawled onto the bed, melting into the soft mattress. In pure contradiction to your earlier predicament, your mind went blissfully blank and sleep found you almost immediately.

You jerked awake to the sound of a small knock at the door. You didn’t feel quite rested but you did feel better. Your stomach still felt uneasy but you didn’t foresee it forcing you to pray to the porcelain god anytime soon. Your body was reluctant to comply with your brain’s order to leave the bed but you soon found yourself in front of the door, pulling it open to meet the concerned face of Carol.

“Honey, how are you feeling?” She asked softly.

“I’m okay.” You answered tiredly, leaning against the door. The urge to go back to sleep for the foreseeable future was quite difficult to ignore.

“I know it’s none of my business but,” the woman dropped her gaze to her wringing hands, “it’s just that I couldn’t stand the smell of eggs when I was expecting Sophia. And I wasn’t just sick in the mornings. It was all the time, which made Ed—well, that doesn’t matter.”

You were already feeling the familiar tightness return to your chest, the uncomfortable fluttering inside your gut. “I—” You couldn’t possibly tell Carol. You hadn’t even told Daryl yet and he was the baby’s father. Still, the way she was looking at you. It was as if she was as desperate to have a friend as you were. “Please don’t tell anyone.” You relented, slumping even further against the door.

“Oh, don’t worry. I won’t. I just figured having someone that understands couldn’t be such a bad thing.” She shrugged with that sweet smile of hers.

You have no idea. You returned the smile. “Thank you.”

“Here.” She extended a hand, opening her palm to reveal several red and white candies. “Peppermint will sometimes help with morning sickness.” You stared for a moment before accepting, stuffing all but one into your pocket. You quickly unwrapped it and popped it into your mouth, yearning for some relief from the constant waves of nausea.

“Thanks. Really. You could tell me to sacrifice a chicken while standing on my head and I’d do it at this point.”

Carol covered her mouth and chuckled, the moment hanging briefly before her expression turned suddenly grim. “That isn’t the only reason I came by. I wanted to fill you in on some things Dr. Jenner told us this morning.”

That did not bode well. “Yeah, okay. Come in.” You stepped back and allowed her to enter, closing the door behind her.

Carol had finished retelling Jenner’s explanation and the two of you were sitting in solemn silence when the lights shut off. You figured the other woman was looking as puzzled as you were before the two of you clumsily found the door in the darkness. You opened it to find Dale and Lori in the hallway, others with their heads peeking out of their rooms.

Footsteps caught your attention just before Jenner passed you by, intercepted by Dale.

“Why is the air off?”

“And the lights in our room?” Lori added.

Another door opened, Daryl leaning out with that same bottle of liquor from the night before firmly in his grasp. “What’s goin’ on? Why’s ev’rythin’ turned off?”

Jenner seemed unbothered by the inquiries, casually swiping Daryl’s bottle in passing without missing a beat. “Energy use is being prioritized.”

Dale appeared taken aback. “Air isn’t a priority? And lights?”

Jenner tipped the bottle to his lips for a long swallow. “It’s not up to me. Zone 5 is shutting itself down.” Everyone filed out into the hall and began following the doctor, Daryl yelling at him as they walked.

Carol touched your arm but you nodded and gave her a gentle push to encourage her to go to her daughter. “I’m gonna put on my boots and I’ll be right behind you.”

Moments later, you entered the big room and started down the stairs to join everyone just as Daryl snatched back the liquor bottle from the doctor. Jenner failed to react, his eyes on Andrea.

“It was the French.”

The blonde stood puzzled. “What?”

“They were the last ones to hold out as far as I know. While our people were bolting out the doors and committing suicide in the hallways, they stayed in the labs till the end. They thought they were close to a solution.”

Jacqui spoke up as you came to stand next to her. “What happened?”

Jenner was utterly nonplussed. “The same thing that’s happening here. No power grid. Ran out of juice. The world runs on fossil fuel. I mean, how stupid is that?”

Shane stepped forward, his face twisted in anger. “Let me tell you—”

Rick was quick to interject. “To Hell with it, Shane. I don’t even care. Lori, grab our things. Everybody, get your stuff. We’re getting out of here now!”

Jacqui gently took your arm and urged you toward the door. “Oh, okay.” She said. It was obvious she was trying to maintain calm. Meanwhile, your heart was attempting to beat out from behind your ribcage. You barely made it to the middle of the stairs before a shrill alarm began blaring.

Amidst everyone’s panicked inquiries, the AI sounded overhead.

Thirty minutes to decontamination.

Daryl was worked up, his posture tense and expression angry. “Doc, what’s going on here?”

Jenner had weaved through the consoles to one on the end, scanning his badge and punching numbers on a keypad.

Shane continued to rally everyone onward. “Everybody, ya’ll heard Rick!”

Rick joined in the urging. “Get your stuff and let’s go! Go now! Go!”

Others were shouting as you climbed the remaining stairs and headed for the exit. There was a whirring clang as the door slid shut just before you could reach it. You were trembling, steps on autopilot while your brain raced through every possible outcome of the situation. None of them were pleasant. You didn’t even remember descending the stairs again but found yourself back on the lower level, watching Shane and Rick restrain Daryl.

You were in shock, only registering key words in the intense conversation happening around you.

“…locked down…”

“…28 minutes…”

“…catastrophic power failure…”

“…it sets the air on fire…”

Daryl ran past you with an axe, threatening the man that had just condemned you all to die.

And then, as Daryl was being held back and everyone shouted and cried, the doctor was speaking directly to you.

“You. You don’t want to bring that innocent baby into this nightmare. This is a mercy.”

Your eyes widened and immediately sought out Daryl, who had gone still and silent. T-Dog was able to pull the axe away from him, the redneck being too busy staring back at you, his expression equal parts anger and shock.

“You’re pregnant?” Dale exclaimed, releasing his hold on Daryl.

“You do want this! All of you!” Jenner secured everyone’s attention with the exception of you and Daryl.

While the pandemonium dragged on, the two of you were frozen. Your eyes pleaded with him to understand. He had no way of knowing how long you had known; whether or not you had lied about taking a test. He was only aware that you knew and you didn’t tell him. He was breathing fast through his nose, nostrils flaring.

When he finally looked away, it felt as if your bones turned to jelly. You slid down in front of one of the stations and pulled your knees to your chest, fighting off yet another episode of panicked emotion.

Distantly, you were aware of things happening around you. A shot was fired. The axe was hitting the door again. Everyone was yelling, pleading.

Jenner hadn’t been offering you a medical alternative. He was telling you that this was going to happen. You could have warned everyone. You could have done something!

Now, everyone was going to die. You were going to die. Your baby was going to die. Your choice was made for you and the only thing you could think was that it was not the choice you would have made. You wanted this baby, Daryl or no Daryl. You wanted the chance to be a mother. You wanted your baby to have a chance.

Feet began to pass by in front of you, but you were slow to respond, only looking up when someone grabbed your upper arm.

Blue eyes. Angry, concerned, panicked blue eyes.

“Get up.” Daryl ordered, hauling you to your feet. His hand slid down your arm to your wrist, and he pulled you along behind him. When you reached the hallway of rooms, he let go. “Get your bag.” You watched him start to walk away but found yourself still unable to make your feet move. Daryl snarled and ran back to you, grabbing your shoulder to give you a none-too-gentle shake. He leaned in, his face inches from yours, eyes blazing but voice calmer. “Y/N. Get your bag.”

It only took a heartbeat, but finally, you nodded and pulled away from him. You only had the clothes from the day before to grab and shove inside the bag. You had to shuffle around in the dark but somehow, you successfully gathered your things and stepped out into the hall just as Daryl was approaching. He still had the axe in one hand, his crossbow hanging from one shoulder and his pack from the other.

“Go. Go, go!” He threw out his hand to urge you forward. This time, you didn’t hesitate. You met up with the group, gathering at the front doors. They were still sealed. While the men were trying to break the glass of a large window, you noticed missing faces. Hoping you weren’t overstepping your boundaries, you laid a hand on Lori’s shoulder.

“Not everyone’s here.” You felt stupid once the words were out. Of course she knew people were missing. They were her people. Surprisingly, she just gave you a mournful look and shook her head. What did that mean? Your expression shifted to disbelief. Unless Jenner had killed them or sealed the doors with them still inside with him, they had a chance. You had to go get them. You had to help. You had to—

“Get down!” You heard Daryl yell just before he dragged you to the floor, shielding you with his body. The surface beneath you vibrated, glass shards scattering across the lot of you. “C’mon!” He pulled you along again, this time by your hand.

“Wait!” You yelled, your sudden stop causing him to lurch backward. The hunter growled in annoyance as you stopped to pick up his crossbow and bag. He didn’t take your hand again but you were right behind him, careful of the swinging axe when he took a walker’s head clean off.

Everyone sought shelter in the separate vehicles, Daryl leading you straight to his truck and opening the driver’s side door while snatching the weapons and bags to toss them carelessly in the back. “In! Get in!” He was almost shoving you while you scrambled inside and tried to cross into the passenger seat to give him room. However, his fingers snagged the back of your shirt and pulled you back toward him while, at the same time, he closed the door. You were pushed down toward the floorboards with Daryl’s body covering you once again.

The explosion was massive. The truck rocked violently; the blast so loud that it left your ears ringing. You felt Daryl’s weight shift before it was gone completely, his hands on your arms to help you up into the seat even as he stared out the window. You followed his line of sight and gasped. The building had all but disintegrated. Cars, trucks, tanks: just gone. You felt only a slight relief at seeing Glenn wave Andrea and Dale into the RV. Maybe Jacqui was in there too. You weren’t a part of their group, but they were living breathing people. And that meant they mattered.

“Hey.” You slowly turned your head toward Daryl, his hands patting down your arms, your face, your stomach. The concern he was showing was odd but not unwelcome. “Y’alright? Hurt anywhere?”

You shook your head. “No. No, I’m okay.” And right before your eyes, his expression morphed and twisted into bitter anger.

“Good. Best sit there an’ just be quiet.” His voice was low, bordering on threatening. He started up the engine, cracking his neck while his eyes burned into the vehicle in front of the truck.

“Daryl, I was gonna—”

“Did I stutter or ya just hard’a hearin’?” He roared, not even looking your way.

You took in a deep breath, fighting back the tears with everything you had. You had fucked up, that was true. Maybe you deserved his wrath but you’d accept it with grace. Well, you would at least try. If there was any hope at all of fixing this—of getting through it at least civilly—you would need to let him cool down.

As Daryl turned the truck around, pulling up the rear of the caravan, you watched the column of black smoke from what once was the CDC spiral up to layer across the Atlanta sky.

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thecharacterchronicler · 1 year ago

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Friends With Benefits… And A Baby (Part 2 ) || Sebastian Sallow x Reader || Smut

Outline: You and Sebastian decide to be “friends with benefits” during your pregnancy.

Word count: 2’500

Warnings: explicit smut, (accidental) pregnancy, characters aged up (20s) and probably a few mistakes here and there because English isn’t my first language.

Author’s note: This is the second part of Exams, poltergeists and supply closets, hope you’ll all enjoy it as much as I enjoy writing this little series.

(( Part 1 - Exams, poltergeists and supply closets )) - (( Part 3 - Mandrakes, dusty books & an apology )) - (( Masterlist ))

“What’s wrong with you ?” Ominis asked, as you sat down at the dinner table, after rushing out of the Great Hall when a very smelly dish of fried fish appeared in front of you, the smell instantly making you nauseous.

“I gave her some Bertie Bott’s beans before dinner, guess she ate one that tasted like boogers.” Sebastian shrugged, in an attempt to cover for you but all it did was give you the urge to throw up again.

“I felt ill for a moment but I’m okay now.” You assured your friend, not so convinced by your words yourself. You placed a boiled potato on your plate, the only thing among the various other dishes on the table that seemed edible to you in your almost constant state of morning sickness.

“Maybe we should walk you to the infirmary after dinner.” Ominis suggested, obviously still very worried. “You haven’t eaten much these past few days, it might be more serious than you think.”

“How would you know ?” Sebastian asked, before you could come up with an excuse to refuse paying a visit to the school nurse. Surely, she’d know what’s going with you at first glance and then you wouldn’t be able to hide it from anyone much longer.

“I have ears, Sebastian. You eat loudly like an animal next to me every day and yet I can still hear that her fork and knife are barely touching her plate lately.”

“I’m fine.” You stated, as confidently as you could fake it. Yet, a wave of nausea came to prove you wrong, making you gasp and cover your mouth. You couldn’t decide between swallowing it down and staying at the table or running off to the bathroom once more.

“See ? There’s only so many days she can go on without eating, it could be dangerous.” Ominis pleaded, and Sebastian’s gaze landed on the small potato in your plate, that you were pretty sure you wouldn’t eat anyway. Then, he looked up at you, his expression now as worried as your friend’s.

“Maybe he’s right. Maybe we should get you checked up, just to be safe.”

“I’m fine.” You repeated, once more. The only thing stronger than your all day sickness was the irritation you felt towards your friends at this very moment. You were determined to finish your last year at Hogwarts normally, passing your exams as brilliantly as you could and graduating with pride. The baby that Sebastian put in your belly will have no choice but to go along with your plan.

“The Gaunts are important contributors to the Saint Mungo hospital, if I send an owl I might be able to get a doctor to visit you here if it makes you more comfortable.” Ominis suggested, which brought you to the conclusion that there was no point in keeping it a secret from him any longer. Would he still be insufferably worried about you if he knew the truth ? Probably. But at least he would stop pestering you about seeking medical attention, if only temporarily.

“I’m fine, Ominis.” You stated again, for the third time at this dinner table. He opened his mouth to protest but you leaned closer, lowering your voice. “I’m pregnant, that is all.”

“Pregnant ? That is all ?!” Ominis exclaimed, repeating your words in disbelief before both you and Sebastian urged him to keep it down. You were sitting at the very end of the dining table but students nearby might still catch a glimpse of your conversation. “What were you two thinking ?! Do you have any idea of the gravity of such a situation ? What it means for your future ? By Merlin, what on earth went through your head to let you think that you two absolutely reckless lunatics could be capable of raising a child ?”

“H-How do you know it is mine ?” Sebastian asked him, surprised.

“Oh please, you both can’t shut up about each other when you’re not together.” Ominis retorted, as if it was the stupidest question his friend had ever asked him.

You exchanged a look with Sebastian, both of your faces blushing.

“What were you thinking ?” Ominis asked once more, shaking his head much like you imagined your disappointed parents will when they’ll find out.

“To be fair, not much went through my head the moment it happened.” Sebastian said, smugly.

“You should have controlled yourself, Sebastian !” Ominis scolded him, as you desperately tried to hush him up again.

“Easy for you to say, you weren’t there. If you heard the way she moans when she likes it and felt how wet…”

“Alright, that’s enough.” You interrupted before he got too carried away with very private details. “There’s no point having this conversation, it happened and now we have to deal with it.”

“At least this child will have one reasonable parent.” Ominis hissed, shaking his head at Sebastian, still way too cocky about it all next to him.

You were sitting down on the cold bathroom tiles, your back pressed against the wall, trying to focus on your homework. You barely noticed the door opening until you realized someone was standing in front of you, a concerned expression on his freckled face.

“This is the girls’ bathroom.” You informed him, which simply made him shrug.

“Imelda told me you were here.” He said, approaching and crouching down to your level, taking in the open books on the tiles with an amused smile. “I’m not sure we’ll be able to keep our secret if you move in into the bathrooms.”

“It’s just so I don’t have to run across the castle every time I need to throw up.” You explained. “Nobody will notice, when I told Imelda I had a stomach bug she just told me to stay away from her because she’s planning on winning the Quidditch cup this year.”

“You have friends that are more caring than Imelda Reyes.” He said, making a point. “And you know, I did some research in the library last night and found out that the best way to beat morning sickness is to actually eat.”

“But I’m not hungry.”

“Not at all ? Isn’t there something you’d be happy to eat ? Whatever it is, I’ll go get it for you.”

You smiled at him, grateful to have such a caring friend. Because that’s what he was to you, right ? Just a friend. A friend that happened to be your future baby’s daddy… But still, just a friend.

His traits softened as he smiled back at you, moving to sit on the floor by your side. His shoulder pressed against yours and you found relief in his familiar scent of old dusty books and faint remains of smoke, your nausea easing up a bit for the first time in days.

“Do you need help with…” He reached out to check the cover of the book on your lap. “One thousand magical herbs and fungi ?”

“I do but not yours if I want a chance to get a good grade in Herbology.” You replied playfully, which made him laugh.

“Fair enough.” He shrugged, his hand absently finding yours, letting it rest on your thigh as your fingers intertwined together. “We’ll figure it out, you know.”

“I know.” You nodded, knowing that he wasn’t talking about school anymore.

“And if we look at the positive aspect of it all, it means we can hook up as much as we want to for the next eight months without having to worry about getting you pregnant.”

“Right.” You rolled your eyes at his words, your giggle resounding against the bathroom tiles.

“And there’s no better way to find your appetite back than a bit of exercising.” He insisted, jokingly but you knew he definitely was trying his luck under the guise of making you laugh.

“Do you really think that would be reasonable ? I don’t think that’s something friends do.”

“We can be friends with benefits… And a baby.” He shrugged, unaware of how tempting the idea was to you. His presence next to you was the only thing that had managed to ease your symptoms and, if you were being totally honest, Sebastian Sallow had never looked more handsome than right now, with his sleeves rolled up and his tie slightly loosened, his hair tousled and that odd pride you saw in his smile every time he talked about hooking up with you - and getting you pregnant - that definitely made up for the slight panic you still sometimes noticed in his gaze.

“Okay.” You nodded, breaking the silence that had taken place between the two of you.

“Okay ?” He repeated, his brown eyes widening in surprise. “You… You want to do it ?”

“Yes, why not ? It’s not like I’d be comfortable hooking up with Garreth in the boat house anymore, anyway.” You replied, adding that last part to mess with him, not expecting the instant jealousy that took over his features.

“Garreth Weasley ?! This walking fire hazard…” Sebastian groaned, his hand tightening its grip on yours possessively. You smiled, flattered that your friend cared so much about you.

He was still mumbling to himself some colorful words about Garreth when you leaned in and pressed your lips against his to silence him. At first, you felt his surprise but soon, he kissed you back, his body irresistibly gravitating closer.

“What if someone walks in ?” He asked, when you moved to reach for his pants, taken aback by your boldness. The first time you had crossed the line of friendship with him, you had sounded so shy and cautious that he couldn’t quite believe you were the one with your hand inside his pants this time, fishing for his rapidly growing erection.

You knew you were breaking school rules by doing this. Again. And you promised yourself that next time, you’ll make sure to abide by the regulations and find another location, out of Hogwarts, to have your fun with Sebastian... But right now, your need for him was too urgent to be ignored. The images of that night in the supply closet were haunting you every night, to the point you sometimes could feel his kiss on your lips and his warm touch on your body in the darkness and loneliness of your dorm room. But you knew nothing could compare to the real thing, and having the opportunity to actually see him while giving in to your desires was something you didn’t have the strength to refuse.

“Then they’ll think that we hook up in bathrooms and won’t question why I’m in here that often anymore.” You told him to ease his concern, the heat of his cock in your hand making you wonder if he had a sudden rush of fever. You pulled it out of his pants, shamelessly looking down at it. He gulped and blushed in front of your fascination, your thumb carefully caressing his pink tip, collecting the clear and sticky precum that was already coating it. His cock was still growing, getting longer and harder in your palm, the veins under his flesh becoming more and more apparent. Then, it was your turn to gulp down and blush as you took in the size of it, wondering how you had even managed to take it all in without any pain the first time.

You lifted your eyes and met Sebastian’s gaze, staring at you with still a slight pink blush coloring his freckled cheeks. You had been so bold that he was waiting on you to take the lead and be in charge, this new side of you not helping him control himself and his urge to tear your school uniform off of your body and show you how wild he could get when it came to fucking you.

“Can I see you too ?” He asked, managing to act like a gentleman, although he truly wasn’t one, judging by the amount of filthy thoughts he had about you and what he wanted to do to you on a daily basis.

“Alright…” you agreed, your voice trembling slightly. You could understand his curiosity, after all, he hadn’t seen anything of you in that dark closet a month ago, only felt your body against his but your self confidence wasn’t at its best after being sick for almost an entire month, with your hormones acting up to make it worse.

He carefully reached out, popping open the buttons of your shirt one by one until you were left with nothing but your bra on. He looked at you questioningly, and you nodded, giving him a silent permission to remove it too.

His eyes instantly widened when your bra dropped on the tiles, your bare chest exposed to him.

“I didn’t think they would grow so much in so little time.” He stated, clearly dumbstruck by the view.

Your hand returned to the hard buldge between his legs, perking up at your touch as you closed your hand around it and pumped it up and down a few times, pulling him out of his daze and making him gasp in reaction. You didn’t think it possible but the movements made his cock grow even bigger and larger.

A groan dropped from his lips as he momentarily closed his eyes, as if he was struggling to keep control over himself.

“Sit.” He told you, his voice so low it sent shivers down your spine. His hands flew to your waist, already maneuvering you to get you in a sitting position over his lap.

You held your skirt up, your legs pressed on the cold tiles on either side of his thighs. His hand slipped underneath your clothes so swiftly you didn’t notice at first, until you felt his fingers pulling your panties aside, baring your very wet pussy.

With his other hand still on your waist, he guided you down until you were low enough for his erection to push past your entrance, stretching your walls as you sank lower and lower until his full size rested inside you.

You gasped at the sensation, your hands on his broad shoulders to help you support yourself and he grinned, the hand between your legs moving all the way up to your hair, gripping on a piece and pulling them back so that you’d bare your neck to him, allowing him to plant a few wet kisses all the way down to your collarbones as you still adjusted to his size inside you.

You slowly moved your hips in wide circles, exploring the pleasant sensations it sent throughout your entire body. He seemed to enjoy it too, his breathing instantly becoming ragged and desperate.

When you pushed on your knees, pulling yourself up before sitting back down and impaling yourself on his hard cock once again, you heard him curse under his breath. One of his hands held your skirt scrunched up in his fist while the other found your hip, guiding you in a faster rythym as you rocked up and down onto him many more times.

He pulled you closer to feel your swollen boobs on his face, appreciating the way they moved in synch with your hips, wanting to bury his face between them until he suffocated. Your moans and whimpers were causing his mind to go blank once again, unable to think about anything other than the pleasure you were apparently having while bouncing on his cock.

You dug your nails in his shoulders, the bliss bubbling up in your core becoming so intense it was almost unbearable. You would have slowed down, afraid of the strength of your own imminent orgasm, but Sebastian kept guiding you at an unrelenting pace, his tip hitting so deep inside your core each time that you barely managed to not let out a scream that could have echoed through the castle’s hallways, your body violently shaking and tensing with the pleasure that spilled into every fiber of your being.

Sebastian had been holding himself back from the very moment you pulled his cock out of his pants. In all honesty, he could have cummed in your hand right then and there but he had fought it long enough to make sure that you’d enjoy it too. He wanted to make you feel good as it felt like the only thing he could do to help you out right now, and now that your body had collapsed over him, effectively suffocating him with your plump chest, crying out his name in a way he would never forget, he allowed himself to come too, shooting his full load inside your still pulsating pussy.

“Are you okay ?” Your voice asked him, after a moment, your chest moving away from his face and leaving him cold.

“Of course.” He answered, panting and smiling. “What about you ?”

“I’m fine.” You told him which, for the first time in days, wasn’t a lie. You moved to sit next to him, his spent cock gliding out of you easily, drops of his white release lightly staining his pants and your skirt in the process. “You know, I think I’m kind of hungry now.”

“Ah! I told you it would work !” He exclaimed, excitedly. “What do you want to eat ?”

“A waffle with chocolate.” You told him, without hesitation.

“Alright, a chocolate covered waffle coming right up !” He nodded, immediately jumping to his feet, adjusting his clothes and walking away, determined to bring you exactly what you had requested. Surely, he’d be able to bribe a house elf for a waffle. And if not, he would sneak into the kitchen and cook one for you himself, how hard could it be ?

♡ - (( Tip Jar )) - ♡

#smut #smutty fanfiction #hogwarts legacy smut #hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy fanfic #sebastian sallow x you smut #sebastian sallow x you #sebastian sallow oneshot #sebastian sallow x reader smut #sebastian sallow fic #hogwarts legacy sebastian #sebastian sallow x mc #hl sebastian #sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow smut #x reader smut #x reader #x you #x you smut

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sleepdeprivedsimp234 · 4 months ago

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Does your au, when the states have a disaster, do they feel it? Like how everyone seems to agree that California ends up burned and has smoke that keeps him from breathing. Does that happen with other disasters? Like Oklahoma, Texas and other midwest states with Tornados. Do they get dizzy and nauseous? Do Florida and Louisiana get sick during hurricane season despite how they act all fine? It seems like a cool concept that people seem to only use on California, sadly.

Yes I do believe that the states are HEAVILY affected by the weather/natural disasters in their states, here’s some examples:

Earthquakes:

If a state has an earthquake, the symptoms will mostly consist of the state affected shaking/trembling a lot, as well as cuts and aches and pains. The intensity of these symptoms depend on the strength of the earthquake

Magnitude 0-3 give mild symptoms, 4-7 give moderate symptoms, and anything above that give the most intense symptoms

If memory serves me right, Alaska and California would be victims of these symptoms the most.

Hurricanes:

if a state/states are hit by a hurricane, the symptoms will usually consist of feeling cold and clammy and feeling wet even if the state/states impacted aren’t wet (this usually happens with smaller hurricanes), though with bigger hurricanes (i.e: Katrina, Galveston), the state/states affected will be bruised, cut and hurting all over, and depending on how bad the hurricane is, the state/states most affected could be left with a cyclone-shaped bruise so deep that it scarred.

Texas, Florida, and Louisiana have been affected by the symptoms listed the most, considering statistics have said that those three are hit/impacted by the most hurricanes

^(Texas was left basically incapacitated by the Great Galveston Hurricane, and didn’t wake up for almost two weeks, and recovery was very rough on him, especially with the tragedy of the death toll (which was between 8-12,000)

Tornado:

States affected by a tornado will more than likely experience dizziness, shaking/trembling, malaise (which is a state of general wearinesss, discomfort, confusion, etc…), nausea (from the constant dizziness and spinning of the tornados), and sometimes cuts and bruising. Stronger tornados will leave deep cuts in the shape of the tornado’s path (deeper the ground scouring, the worse the cut)

The South and Midwestern states are the most affected by the symptoms listed

^ all of them have at least a few scars in the shape of tornado paths of major tornados

Oh yeah, sometimes the states listed will randomly faint during tornados. Like just. Drop out of nowhere. It’s concerning to the states that aren’t used to tornados.

Wildfires:

States affected by wildfires/fires in general (of any size) will often experience breathing problems, cloudy vision, fevers, malaise, and will always have a burn/burns somewhere on their body

The Western states appear to be the most affected, as well as states like Texas (heard that they’re apparently having some fire issues down there right now), Oklahoma (I think that there’s some fire stuff happening there now), Louisiana (anyone remember the Tiger Island fire?), and a few others who’s names aren’t coming to mind right now.

Floods:

States affected by flooding will experience malaise, a constant feeling of being underwater, sometimes breathing complications, nausea and vomiting, feeling like they’re drenched in water even if they aren’t, and then feeling cold and clammy.

States like Florida, Louisiana, Texas, etc… are most affected by these, as well as the Carolinas + Tennessee (after Hurricane Helene)

Dust Storms:

If there’s a dust storm, the state affected will experience clouded vision, light sensitivity, breathing complications, a dry throat, and the constant feeling of sand on their skin even though there is none.

States most affected include most of the west (mainly Arizona, New Mexico, Nevada), as well as states like Texas and Oklahoma.

and that’s all I have right now lol

but to summarize: yes, the states are affected by weather/natural disasters

#welcome to the table #welcome to the statehouse #wttt #ben brainard #wttsh

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lunarw0rks · 2 years ago

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hi! im not sure if you do any requests like this but if you wouldn't mind, with ghost or konig, where the reader is depressed and has suicidal ideations and ghost/konig save them before it's too late? ive gone through somewhat similar things and it would be comforting reading someone be there for them!

A/N: I don't mind requests like this, just read with caution, please! To anon, or anyone reading that has gone through this, you deserve happiness and are loved!! "988" is the nationwide hotline ♡

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° I hope you don't mind, but I chose Ghost since I haven't written for Kӧnig (YET) Italics are Simon's perspective when it's happening at the same time as reader.

Summary: You feel swallowed by depression, but Simon saves you just in time.

Warning(s): depression, talk of suicide, PTSD themes - DO NOT READ IF THIS TRIGGERS YOU!!, established relationship, GN!Reader, no use of y/n, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff at the end

Word Count: 1.5k

꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ GHOST MASTERLIST // have a request? ♡¸.•*' | ao3 ver.

In Your Arms // Drabble

The world's weight had been on your shoulders; the constriction on your chest gave you a constant state of crisis, the strain on your heart soon to break it to pieces, and most of all the strain on your mind.

Each waking moment was a gamble of numbness or overdrive. In the instances of numbness, you were withdrawn, coasting your way through meals, laying awake at night with a blank stare. When you were in overdrive, it was like each bad thought physically pilled itself atop you, increasing your irritability and defensiveness.

It was as if the real you were trapped inside somewhere, but you were being overruled by an enclosure of gloom.

Chores, conversations, and the people you loved dearly became a melancholy hassle. You hated every second of it, and most of all hated yourself for behaving like this. At first, you were begging for an out—some savior to snap you out of it.

But now, you felt hopeless—and were making plans to give yourself that out.

You finally had an opportunity, a few hours where you’d have the house to yourself, with Simon out for a few hours. The problem was, gathering the courage. Even though you had the thoughts raining down on you, it was a decision you would never be able to take back.

You were sat in the shared bedroom, on top of the bed you’d just remade. It had been God knows how long by now, and all you could do was stare blankly at the wall ahead, choking back sobs. You looked at his side of the room, seeing the stark contrast between his and yours.

When you thought of him, how he’d be better off this way, it nudged you toward your answer.

Simon noticed your off-balance behavior the day he arrived home. Despite telling you how lovely you looked, he could tell the isolation of his deployment had taken its toll. The bags under your eyes, the dark circles worsening, your sudden change in eating habits—something he greeted like an old friend.

He, of all people, understood the feeling. He just didn’t know how to confront it.

He was never good with his words, or his ability to provide comfort physically; he relied on his crisis training, and most of all, how much he loved you.

When he said he was going out with friends, he was. At first. He found himself sitting in the driveway with a pit in his stomach, his anxieties swallowing him. He was protective, to begin with, but paired with the behavior changes, he was practically trembling at the thought of something horrible happening.

He was white-knuckling the steering wheel, debating on spending his night inside with you. Guilt consumed him for even considering going out anywhere when you’d waited months for him.

His stomach was in knots, twisting and turning, begging him to give in to nausea overtaking him any second. Something was wrong, something was going to happen.

You were fighting yourself again. The thoughts were racing so hard you could swear you heard them buzzing around your head like an angry swarm of wasps, each of them a stinger in your skin.

You reached for the nearest object—the remote—then stood to your feet, sending it plummeting towards the wall in front of you. It shattered the hanging picture frame on impact, sending shards of glass around the bedroom.

It did nothing to silence the thoughts. The sudden rush of fury only fueled them, begging for you to do something more to stop them—the only option you felt you had left.

He had his car door open, gathering his things before he was on his way inside. He’d made his decision, he would rather spend the night with you.

Simon’s trained ear heard the faint shatter of glass, seeing that the upstairs bedroom was the only one lit. There was no hesitation; no second thought to make sure it wasn’t a critter in the garbage can or another household.

He unlocked the door swiftly, a hand hovering over the holster underneath his jacket. The downstairs was clear, nothing askew. He next went up the stairs, leaning in the direction of the bedroom to pick up any sound coming from it.

In his mind, he was fearing the worst, paired with the anxiety he was already having in the car. He’d been here before, with too many people. It couldn’t, no, wouldn’t happen again, not with you.

When the door creaked open, it revealed you, shriveled against the wall with your head in your hands. Beside you, was a broken picture frame, sent flying into pieces around the room. His mind put the pieces together—the irritability, the insomnia, the withdrawn behavior, his gut feeling—all coming together now.

But his worst fears hadn’t come true. You were alive. Alive, and in need of his help. His gut feeling, that painful ache in his stomach when he left, it was right.

His knees dropped to the ground beside you, ignoring the slices forming through his clothes. His entire focus was on you, nothing else.

“Love…” He whispered, grabbing ahold of your knee to make you look his way. When your pooled eyes met him again, he felt like his heart had been ripped in two.

The sight of you, the pain written in your expression. Not physical pain, not heartache, but hopelessness. A specific, known too well by him, expression.

Simon could barely stand it, the person he practically breathed for, fought for, succumbing to their sorry—and he could’ve been too late. The warmth of your flesh under his fingertips, how it shivered, he knew you were still here, still breathing.

He was at a loss for words, even for a man who spoke very little. Angry at himself, not you, for not saying something earlier on. His withdrawal was both a blessing and a curse—a lesson well learned, now that his life with you had flashed before him.

Without a second thought, he scooped you up, setting you gently on the neat bed. He remained standing in front of you, staring down at you with a foggy expression.

“I’m sorry,” You muttered, blinded by the tears.

Simon visibly shook his head, forcing yours into his chest. It wasn’t your fault, and if he could force you to believe that, he would. He didn’t have words to give you, only the comfort of his presence. He just held you; held onto your frame as you wept into his abdomen, soaking through the fabric of his tee.

Tears only teased at his own eyes, but never made it past them. Though internally, he was weeping for you, nearly inconsolable.

It was his job to follow orders, to do his duty. His duty now, was you. He had to be strong for you, always, otherwise he had no purpose left on this Earth.

When the sobs had turned into defeated sniffles, he dropped to his knees to meet your eye level. Him, never one for eye contact, but he couldn’t take his eye off you now.

“I’m here now, I promise.” His deep voice echoed through the room, bouncing off your repines for his comfort.

You were still in shock, how one minute ago you were so close to the edge, but the next he was by your side. The sorrow only subsided for the moment, but with him as a distraction, you knew you had at least one person there for you. One person who understood what you were going through, no doubt about it.

His large hands, the ones stained with the blood of his hands, gently cradling your face until you were lucid enough to give him your full attention. He was there for you, no matter how hard the stubborn thoughts tried to convince you he wasn’t.

They moved from your face, to your neck and arms, then your fingers, searching for any sign of physical injury.

“Let me help you, please…” Simon placed a small kiss on one of the tear droplets streaming down, wiping away the rest with his thumb. His hand went down again, clasping around yours tenderly as he routed you to the shared bathroom.

He grabbed a spare cloth off the rack, wetting it slightly in the sink as he traced it along each tear stain, his other hand on your waist the entire time. He was focused and stiff, but his eyes were gentle.

When he finished, he cupped your face again, touching his lips to yours, then your temple. “You are everything to me, got it?” He whispers against your forehead, eyes still wide, reeling with the shock of nearly losing you.

Your head was in his chest again as one hand remained on your waist, the other holding your head in place. He was savoring this, not taking you for granted for a second.

Deep inside, he was picturing all those months he’d left you alone to feel like this.

How each tear he wiped was a lash of regret. He was going to make up for it from now on. Whether he could help you one on one, or you talk to a professional, he would back you every step of the way.

That was his duty.

#simon riley x reader #mw2 fanfic #mw2 #simon riley #call of duty #task force 141 #ghost mw2 #task force 141 x reader #simon riley fluff #simon riley angst #tw depression

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cloudss-space · 7 months ago

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SICK READER AND COMFORT FROM ANY OF THE KC ROMANCE OPTIONS!!!

Call me if you need me

( killer chat ) v x sick reader

trigger warning:

none

The world feels muffled, like a distant echo, as you lie there in the bed that has become your only refuge. Your body aches in a way you've never experienced before. Every movement is slow and heavy, as if the weight of the world has settled on your shoulders. The blanket is comforting, but it's too warm and thick. You toss and turn, determined to find a position that doesn't amplify the discomfort of your feverish skin. The cold is merciless, wrapping itself around you with each breath, filling your lungs with the sharp sting of congestion.

Your phone is on the nightstand, screen dim and forgotten. The notifications blink silently in the corner of your eye, but you don't care. You don't want to talk to V. You don't need him. Everything feels distant. The world outside your bed, the messages waiting on the other side of the screen, seem unreachable.

You look at the phone again and the little heart on the screen demands your attention. The K9 name appears, followed by a simple yet powerful message, brimming with the warmth and care you need right now. The words feel foreign to you. They have travelled through a fog before reaching your mind. They blur and merge, making it difficult to focus. You refuse to respond, not now, not when your head feels like it's full of cotton, and your limbs are heavy with the weight of illness.

You close your eyes for a moment, the softness of the pillow against your cheek lulling you into a daze. The fever makes everything feel like it's slipping through your fingers. You are half here and half somewhere else, caught between the world of the sick and the world of the living. You want to disappear into the blankets, into the warmth, and forget about the pain in your chest and the guilt that sits there. You know V is waiting for you and you're too tired to meet him.

You're not angry at V. Absolutely not. You crave the reassuring embrace of his words, the way V always knows just what to say to make everything feel a little bit lighter. In this moment, the illness that has taken over your body has you in its grip. The constant tickle in your throat, the pounding headache, the ache behind your eyes, the way your nose is so stuffy it feels like you're drowning – everything else is muted. You want to push through, but you can't.

You pull the covers tighter around you, your hand reaching blindly for your phone. This is an action you perform automatically, like muscle memory. The screen lights up once more, showing his name again and a new message. You hesitate, your finger hovering over the reply button, but then your phone rings in your hand. The sound of it is too loud, too bright in the hazy quiet of your illness. You don't answer, not now, not when you feel like you're sinking. You feel an overwhelming wave of guilt rise in you, twisting in your stomach, making the nausea worse. V's trying, and here you are, too busy dealing with your own discomfort to meet him halfway.

You care about V, but you care too much. In this fragile, sickened state, you feel as though you're failing him. You want to send him a message, but the fog in your mind gets in the way. It's difficult to form coherent thoughts, and it's even more challenging to believe that he won't be hurt by the distance you're creating. You have nothing left to give today. You simply don't have the energy, attention or love to offer him.

You lie back against the pillow, eyes closed, and the quiet loneliness presses against you. The silence between you and V stretches further, but you know it's only a momentary lapse. You're sick of feeling like everything else is slipping through your fingers. You want to reach out and hold V. You want to tell him that this isn't your fault and that you're not trying to push him away. But the words are stuck in your throat, tangled with the ache of everything that's not said.

The illness is an invisible wall that separates you from everything you care about. It's not just the physical toll – it's the emotional weight of knowing you're being distant, and that even when he reaches out, you can't be there. V's messages are full of care, understanding and concern, yet they make you feel more distant than ever. You can't possibly live up to the expectation of being there for him when you're barely able to hold yourself together.

Your phone buzzes again, another message from K9. You don't open it right away. Instead, you stare at the ceiling, letting the quiet settle around you. There's a comfort in the stillness, a part of you that wants to stay here, in this limbo, where nothing is demanded and nothing is expected. But you know that this is just a temporary escape. You can't hide forever.

You reach for the phone, its weight heavy in your hands. The light from the screen is bright against your tired eyes, and you wince, but you know you can't bring yourself to turn it off. You have to see it. V's words. V's thoughts. V's affection. You must remember that he is there, even if you cannot reach him at the moment. You open the message and his words are simple and gentle: Hey, I just wanted to check in and see if you're okay. I've been thinking about you.

You stare at the text, feeling the weight of it settle in your chest. The love, the concern, the desire to be there for you. And still, the guilt lingers, tightening its grip on your throat. You feel sick in more ways than one. You know V deserves more than this, more than the tired excuses and half-formed answers that you're able to give. He deserves more than the silence you've let stretch too long.

The sickened, feverish haze clouds everything, but I know the truth. You know V understands. He knows this isn't a reflection of how you feel about him – how much you need him, even in this distance. You put the phone down and close your eyes, determined to rest, but your mind won't stop. You keep thinking about V, about how he must be feeling, about the space you've unknowingly put between you. Your body may be sick, but your heart aches with the weight of being unable to be who you want to be for him, the way you used to be.

You are confident that this will pass. When the fever breaks and the fog lifts, you will find your way back to V. You will show him how much you care and how much you need him too. But tonight, you let the silence hang in the air, wrapped up in the weight of your apology. You know he can feel the love you can't quite put into words, on the other side of the screen.

The silence that stretched between you is suddenly broken, like a floodgate has opened. Your phone buzzes incessantly, a relentless torrent of care that you cannot escape. Each buzz is a clear reminder of V and the unmistakable warmth and weight of his concern. This isn't the distant, abstract concern of someone watching from afar. It's sharp, immediate, a presence that fills the empty spaces between the words you haven't yet replied to.

The screen lights up, and you swipe to open it, ready to process his messages. It isn't an invasion; it isn't overwhelming. It's the gentle insistence of someone who won't let you fade into the shadows. They see your illness as something to be confronted, something to be understood and fixed, logically and lovingly.

Drink plenty of fluids. V's words are factual and solid, like the simple truth of them can break through the haze clouding your mind. “You need to drink at least eight cups today. Hydration is the key to fighting off any virus. Your body needs it to clear toxins.” His messages are clear and confident, filled with the calm determination of someone who's done his research and is ready to fight this battle with you.

Next, he provides a link to a clinical article about the best foods to eat when you're sick. V has already scoured the internet, hunting for answers in places you never thought to look. “Here's a recipe for ginger tea. It helps with nausea and congestion. Boil ginger slices, add honey for sweetness, and sip slowly.” There's also a link to a YouTube video, a step-by-step guide on how to prepare the perfect brew, with soothing music in the background to calm your mind. It feels almost like a ritual, something to hold onto in the chaos of sickness.

His messages are logical and precise, and as you read through them, you can see that each one builds on the last. V is your guide and anchor in this disorienting world. "A warm compress on your face will help clear your sinuses," he writes, his advice clear and confident. "Put it on your forehead for 10 minutes at a time. Make sure it's not too hot. Don't rush it. Focus on your breathing."

As the messages pour in, you feel a strange sense of relief – a peace, even. His messages are steady and consistent, cutting through the fatigue clouding your mind like a lighthouse cutting through the storm. There's no emotion that demands an answer and no pressure to be something you're not in this moment. V's logical approach is soothing and provides structure in the chaos. It feels like being wrapped in a soft, warm blanket, the kind you don't even have to think about because it's just there, surrounding you.

"Make sure you're getting Vitamin C," V texts next, the words so matter-of-fact, like a list you need to check off. "Eat oranges or berries. "If you're feeling too weak to eat solid food, you can get supplements to help with absorption." His tone is confident and assured, as if he has seen this before and knows exactly what to do to get you back on your feet. V is your personal health guide now, in his own way.

Then comes the text with the most logical but also the most comforting advice of all. "Rest. Don't feel guilty about it. Your body is doing a lot of work right now. It needs time to heal, and it can't do that if you're pushing it. Sleep as much as you can. I'm here whenever you wake up."

The simplicity of it is a balm for the part of you that feels like you should be doing more. It soothes the voice in your head that says you should be managing your day, answering his messages, and not lying here feeling useless. But V's calm words undo that pressure, unravel the knots in your chest, and for the first time today, you allow yourself to settle deeper into the bed, letting the exhaustion pull you down again.

The new message contains a diagram showing the most effective positions for sleeping when congested. V has anticipated your every need and discomfort, and tailored his responses to match. "Elevate your head with a few pillows to help with drainage. It's the best way to avoid pressure in your sinuses." Even in this logical advice, there's an unspoken love, an undercurrent of care that makes each message feel like a gentle hand, guiding you through the discomfort.

V doesn't ask you to answer him. He doesn't demand that you perform or be at your best. V just wants to make sure you're okay. He's giving you everything you need to feel better, even if you don't have the energy to ask for it. Each message is a promise and a reassurance that he'll be here, even when you can't be fully present for him in return.

There are more articles now – one on the benefits of herbal teas, another on breathing exercises to clear your head. Each message is more of the same – care wrapped in logic, concern wrapped in facts. You could read them all, but you know you're too tired for all this. You want to sleep, to let your body rest, but V keeps sending them, and you don't mind.

Inhale deeply through your nose and exhale through your mouth, slowly. Focus on your lungs filling, then emptying. This will relax your chest and ease the tension. His advice is an extension of his care. It is methodical, measured, and full of tenderness. He is the only one who can give this kind of tenderness.

You know V's messages are soothing you, not just through his logical advice, but through the sheer steadiness of it. There's no drama here, no expectation. Just simple guidance, clear and calm, that makes you feel like you can trust your own body to get better again. You know you can.

"Don't worry about replying unless you feel up to it," V states firmly, as if he knows you're already overwhelmed by his steady barrage of information. "I'm here to help." There's no need for you to do anything right now. Just focus on getting better. I'm with you, even if you need to rest.

For the first time all day, your mind clears, just for a second. You stop trying to force yourself to keep up, to be something you're not. V's logical advice isn't just a plan to get better – it's a reminder that there's no rush. You don't have to be anything other than sick right now. You don't have to perform. You don't have to explain. You can just be.

The messages may slow after a while, but you know you are not alone. Instead, you feel comforted, as if V has given you the space to rest, to heal, and to breathe. You close your eyes and allow the weight of the blanket to soothe you, following his advice and breathing deeply.

And as sleep starts to pull you under once more, you find a small piece of peace in the stillness, knowing that tomorrow – when you wake – you'll have a guide, a constant, logical presence to help you heal. And though you may be far apart, in this moment, you are held, steady and sure, by the one who loves you through it all.

The morning comes in slow, deliberate steps, like a pale gold wash over a darkened sky. You wake not to the soft hum of sunlight filtering through the curtains, but to the low vibration of your phone on the nightstand. The sound is foreign in the stillness of your fevered cocoon, and for a moment, you forget why it's ringing. Then, through the fog of sleep, V's name appears on the screen, and you are fully awake.

You answer, your voice firm and clear, "Hello?"

V's voice greets you on the other side, calm and steady, yet brimming with concern. It feels like stepping into a warm room after standing in the cold – a comfort you didn't realise you needed until it was there. "Hey," he says firmly, "how are you feeling today?"

You pause, then reply with conviction. Your throat is raw and your words are fragmented. "I'm still sick," you say firmly, your voice breaking.

V doesn't laugh or tease you for how weak you sound. Instead, he switches immediately to his logical cadence, his tone as gentle as the sunlight filtering through the blinds. "That's okay," he states. "It's going to take a few days. You need to give your body time to heal. Rest up. Did you get some rest?

You nod, then realise he can't see you. "Yes, I'm fine," you say firmly.

"Good," he says, his voice firm and reassuring. "That's progress. Sleep is the best thing for you right now. It lets your immune system do its job." V's words are factual, yet there's an underlying care woven into every syllable, a reassurance that he's not just talking for the sake of it – he's here, present, and invested in your recovery.

V pauses for a moment, letting the quiet between you settle before continuing. "I was reading about colds last night," he states, his voice firm and confident. "Staying hydrated helps thin mucus and reduces congestion. It also prevents dehydration from the fever. You need to drink enough water.

You smile, the corner of your lips twitching upward despite the heaviness in your chest. "You're like a walking health manual," you joke, your voice firm but fond.

"Maybe," V says, and there's a lightness in his tone that makes the weight of your illness feel just a little easier to bear. "But I figure if I can't be there in person to take care of you, this is the next best thing."

The words sink into you, and you feel a gentle warmth spreading through the cold ache of your body. V is trying to be present and close the distance between you. He's trying to help, and he's trying to do it with each careful word and piece of advice. You didn't realise you needed this comfort until now.

"Have you eaten anything?" V asks after a beat, his voice soft but insistent. "Even something small. You need energy to fight this off."

You shake your head, then remember he can't see you. "Not yet," you admit. "I don't have much of an appetite."

"That's normal," V states, his tone firm and unwavering. "Eat something, even if it's just a few crackers or some soup. It doesn't have to be much, but it'll help. There's a pause, and then he adds, in a firm but kind voice, "Please." "For me."

V's soft, earnest, and full of care tone makes you want to try, even if the thought of food feels impossible right now. The advice itself is not the most striking thing. It is the way he delivers it, wrapping it in a kind of love that feels tangible, even through the distance of a phone call.

V stays on the line for a while longer, his voice a steady rhythm in the background of your illness. He doesn't push you to talk, doesn't demand more than you can give. Instead, he fills the silence with quiet reassurances, with gentle encouragement, with the kind of presence that is an anchor in the haze of your sickness.

When the call ends, you feel lighter. V's words have settled in the spaces where your exhaustion had taken root. You close your eyes again, the sound of his voice still echoing softly in your mind. For the first time in days, the weight of your illness feels just a little easier to carry.

#killer chat #v killer chat #fluff #x reader #gender neutral reader #fic #fanfic

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butterfly-stitches · 8 months ago

Text

BLUE MONDAYS.

[ Mature ]

AO3

Masterlist

Pairings: Russell Adler x Bell, Russell Adler x Reader Russell Adler & Bell, Russell Adler & Lawrence Sims, Bell & Lawrence Sims, Russell Adler & Helen A. Park

Warnings: Brainwashing 🧠 Psychological Torture 🧠 Torture 🧠 Mind Manipulation 🧠 Medical Experimentation 🧠 False Memories 🧠 Flashbacks 🧠 Loss of Identity 🧠 Prisoner of War 🧠 Medical Torture 🧠 Medical Inaccuracies 🧠 Military Inaccuracies 🧠 Vietnam War 🧠 Propaganda 🧠 Pining 🧠 Crush at First Sight 🧠 Unresolved Romantic Tension 🧠 Unresolved Sexual Tension 🧠 Older Man/Younger Woman 🧠 Developing Friendships 🧠 Possibly Unrequited Love 🧠 Stockholm Syndrome 🧠 Denial of Feelings 🧠 Pre-Canon 🧠 POV Second Person > Other Additional Tags to Be Added <

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Chapter 2: rewind the clock.

Words: 7,535 Summary: In which you are tried …

We’ve known each other for years. Fought together, bled together. Been through the hell of Vietnam together.

Together.

Together…

=========================================

— Script 01 —

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You remembered when you first met him. All those years ago.

You were fresh off the huey; jet-lagged, motion sick and completely exhausted. The majority of your morning had been spent by long, draining hours of travel. With nothing to do but to sit still in your heli seat and mindlessly stare out beyond to leagues and leagues of endless jungle. You had grown restless during it; uncomfortable and fidgety. It was not in your nature to be so inactive and stationary for so long, although it was only for now.

Even so, it was grueling for you. Zoochosis for a captive animal, idle hands for a person with calloused palms. Your tailbone ached, your muscles stiffened. The earmuffs of the aviation headset were starting to make your ears hurt. The sound of static in your eardrums echoed in your head. But it was the only thing that blocked out the chopping winds and sounds of the rotor blades from the open cabin. Hours of constant travel that felt stagnant, stuck in a never ending loop. Trapped in a limbo of an all-encompassing jungle. A glue trap for vermin such as you. And it was all beginning to drive you mad.

There came a sudden drop in your gut, a rising crest of nausea. Then all at once, the irrational feeling of claustrophobia. As the urgency to escape from the cramped feeling of your helicopter coursed throughout your body. Bile was in the back of your throat, a burning pain behind your eyes. You stood up, gripping the handrails tightly as you swayed on the edge from shooting up from your seat so quickly. Heels just on the precipice of the open cabin’s fuselage. Winds howling all around you, whipped against your face as you stared out. The panoramic blur of jungle greenery was starting to pull you in like a gravity wellspring, a riptide. Maw open to swallow you whole.

A traitorous thought, a nipping need. From a desperation that entailed recklessness. Muscles primed to take the plunge and jump out. Alarm bells drowning out all logical thinking, overwhelmed instead by the fight-or-flight instinct. To run, to escape. Escape? Escape from what?

You didn't know.

(Oh, but you do. Don’t you? Deep down where the wounds are still fresh. Nothing forgets the feel of teeth and claws.)

There came a crackling of voices in your headset between the pilots and air control. It was incomprehensible in your current state, too stuck in your own headspace to fully grasp what was said. But you knew what it meant, you were close to your destination. Closer still to being out of the air and off the helicopter. Your eyes shut as you leaned your head to the side against your forearm, and took lungfuls of air. A process to breath out the feelings that beset you. To calm the turbulence in your head and ease away the tension in your limbs. You opened your eyes. And there, you saw it. Right as it bloomed on the horizon in the far distance. A single splotch of civilization among all the wilderness. One you recognized from your dossier. Your reassignment, your new place of conduct.

Camp Haskins.

A base built on top of an excavated and flattened peninsula. Jungle and hilltops in the distance. A boundless murky lake surrounded it all. With wide winding rivers slithering through the expanse of overgrown verdure. Sunbeams streamed through the plies of clouds across a clear blue sky, reflecting off the water surface in an sparkling array like that of a shining prism. Hypnotizing, entrancing.

(But you could see past the surface level beauty, can’t you? Look closely, to where all the ugliness and madness lies just beneath the skin. To the false ideology that poisons the land. The hearts and the minds.)

Like ants, the shapes of soldiers and personnel were all but small dots beneath the view from your huey hovering above. You were eventually forced to sit as it started to slowly descend downwards to a stretch of land serving as a makeshift airstrip. From your view above there were other helicopters sat aside on dirt spots lined with sandbags and grass patches. Their rotor blades spun idly like weathervanes, disturbed by the sudden dusty squalls generated by the wing blades of your own.

As your steel bird landed amid the rest of the flock, without a moment of delay, your boots met the ground. Legs shaky like a fawn’s, duffle bag over your shoulder. Hot dust swirled around you, the harsh glare of the sun was in your eyes. And you squinted, shielding your face with your forearm from it all. But all you felt was relief. Eased by the feel of solid ground underneath your feet. From the cloudiness, a marshaller ducked underneath the helicopter blades. The aviation helmet and clouds of dust obscured his features. Voice muffled by the hum of the chopper blades but you understood his gestures.

He led you toward the outskirts where a Lieutenant awaited your arrival. Silent and stoic in the shadow of one of the roosting helicopters. You were greeted with nothing more than a curt nod and a firm handshake. No formal introductions or debriefs given. But his face said it all. Apathetic and haggard, thin mouth pressed tight. You were taken aback by the abrupt unfriendliness. You weren’t expecting any enthusiastic reception, or even a warm welcome by any means, but it seemed your arrival wasn’t as big of a deal as described to you. Mannerisms and rectitude… just civil things chipped away and lost to the jungle. He walked off ahead of you, away from the airfield and towards the entrance of the base. And you followed wordlessly.

But as you both reached the threshold of the base entrance, your steps began to slow until you eventually stopped in place. Wiping away sweat that already began to coat your skin. Your eyes went to the flagpole at the foot of the entrance gate, right along the barbed wire fencing. And up to where the sounds of whipping fabric snapped in the breeze. Above you, the star spangled banner soared. Something in you stirred at the sight of it, staring up at the domestic colors of red-white-and-blue. Of the stars and stripes in the air. You were attentive to it as it waved at you. Saluting to the soldier inside and out. Seeing those colors fly above was more of a welcome than anything, something sickly familiar.

But the longer you stared at it, the more something began to brew within you. An itch in the recesses of your mind as you tried to remember. A jolt shot down your spinal cord and your skin crawled. Something about it felt off.

(Don’t you see it? Look closely. To the false ideology that poisons the land. The hearts and the minds.)

Seeing those colors fly above you…

Was as sickly familiar just as it was sickly foreign to you.

The American flag distorted like a glitch, hemorrhaged before your very eyes. The red stripes bled. Poured out like cuts on the skin, staining the fabric darker. Until it was red, red, red. Soaked in sin, bathed in bloodshed. With only the taste of iron and rot to overload your senses. Of lies being force fed to you. Slowly, by the spoonful; easily masticated, easily digestible.

Sluicing rivulets of burning scarlet trickled down onto the dirt below, pouring out before your feet like flood waters. But before the spillage could wash over your boots, you stepped back. As disembodied, high-pitched screams came from all around you in all directions, from everywhere all at once. Pressure expanded in your head, a ringing hummed in your ears. And all you could do was look around aimlessly as your surroundings began to fade away. As if the world around you had been sepia-stained all along. Saturated and grainy like living through a photograph. Snapshots hung in darkrooms, pictures pinned onto cork boards.

There came another itch in the recesses of your mind, a jolt down your spinal cord once more. As an omnipresence settled in your head. With it came a cacophony that surged forward. A thousand voices that spoke with the power of one, loud and sharp in your ringing ears. Someone called to you, words unintelligible. Muffled as if spoken underwater. Until it grew louder and clearer.

The voice called out again. And you blinked.

Slowly, heavily. As if you just remembered you could.

You turned towards the voice. Craned your head towards the entrance of the base where the Lieutenant stood. Visibly confused and on the border of being concerned. Your eyes flicked back up to the flag, only to see that it was as it was before. Red-white-and-blue, American colors blowing in the wind. Your tongue swiped across your chapped lips and a coppery taste seeped into your mouth. You lifted your hand up, pulling it back to see blood smeared on your fingertips. A nosebleed, small and just beginning to congeal. You wiped away the trickle of blood with the inside of your sleeve. Gave one last look at the stars and stripes above before falling back in line.

Following right after the Lieutenant. Who only remained quiet as he led you through Camp Haskins. Stealing occasional glances over his shoulder at you. You brushed off his looks however, taking in the new sights and sounds of your new workplace. The FOB was bigger than what you anticipated. Uncounting for the expansive area of its grounds and perimeter that was more like a campground than just a resting campsite. Made of wooden pallet walls, metal sheets, stacked sandbags, barbed wire, and chain link fencing. Built from the ground up, Camp Haskins was a foothold in the predacious jungles of Vietnam. A paradise in the hellscape. A somewhere in the middle of nowhere.

And here, in such a place, you stuck out like a gangrened limb.

Eyes were on you, curious and watchful. Whispering to each other. Peeking out from the surrounding rows of field tents and makeshift pallet sheds. Sheltering away from the sweltering heat of the afternoon sun. Listening to cheery vinyls in the background to dilute the silent suffering that simmered over the campsite. But how could they not stare? You were fresh meat among the butchered bunch, just another body for the grinder. Just another cog for the machine. But you weren’t just some starry-eyed recruit straight out of bootcamp. Just as young, yes. But far more seasoned. Having had your fair share of field and combat experience. As well as a honed skill set based in subterfuge, intel gathering, linguistics, encryption and decryption — more specifically, cryptanalysis and cryptography.

Your experience and expertise were why you were here. And why you were reassigned to this place.

(A new change of scenery, a new set of challenges. A sacrificial lamb in a slaughterhouse. You belonged here rightfully, did you not?)

Even so, there was an efflux of uneasiness -- an acetic mix of both nerves and nausea. Lingering after effects from your journey here. But you remained composed. Unreactive to the looks and stares from the other soldiers. Quiet as a field mouse while you followed behind the Lieutenant on a plank path between the field tents. Head down, eyes averted. Focused instead to the sounds of your footsteps on the boards.

The wooden footpathing eventually cut past a gun range. Targets, crates, barrels, wood paneling and sandbags set up at different distances and positions. Behind cover and out in the open. A group of men watched from the sidelines underneath the shade of the camouflage net hanging over the shooting booths. Because of the rising temperature, some were shirtless. Others were still in their jungle fatigues with their collars opened wide and sleeves pulled up as far up as they could go. Instructors and quartermasters lingered nearby, observing the attempts and watching for progress.

From what you could gather it was a shooting exercise or rather a friendly competition. Soldiers cheered on as one of the participants standing behind the firing line quickly took shots at the targets. Missing more than a few, before his aim steadied a bit. But he wasn’t quick enough as a stopwatch rang out, signaling the end of his attempt. You slowed your stride and took a moment to watch. Analyzing and surveying. Your eyes focused on the next participant that stepped forward. A stocky man with a buzzcut, wearing a stained wife beater. A rifle hung over his shoulder casually, as if it was an accessory more than a necessity. He audibly scoffed at the time set by his fellow competitor, a cocky grin on his face. A deliberate display that caught the attention of the shooting instructors.

“What? Think you can do better, Miller?” One of them said.

The man’s grin only widened in response. “More than better, sir.”

Some of the men behind him laughed. More in agreement than doubt. Laughing with him rather than at him. From the crowd, you watched another soldier stride forward, clapping Miller on the shoulder with a hearty laugh. Then threw an arm around his neck, tugging him close like one would a younger brother.

“Gotta watch out for this one, Staff Sergeant. Fought off a whole ambush of those Vietnamese bastards down in the ridge. And all by himself.”

“Heard Miller did it all with just one mag left.” Another piped in, miming an assault rifle in his hands and taking aim at invisible enemies. “One shot, one kill.”

“Got them damn Vietnamese runnin’ at the sight of ‘im.”

The instructor only rolled his eyes, arms across his chest. “Didn’t know you had cheerleaders, Private.”

“Yeah. The best damn cheer team in ’Nam, sir. Just need some short skirts and pom-poms then it’ll feel just like home.”

Miller winked and the other men burst out in laughter much to the Staff Sergeant’s clear annoyance. By the way his lips flatten into a scowl.

“This ain’t high school football, son.” He said, stepping closer. Glaring down at the still smug Private inches from his face. “Just get your ass to the shooting stall. We’ll see just how good you are at killin’, Team Captain.”

Miller stood up straighter in a salute, a small smirk rising in the corner of his mouth.

“Yessir.”

But you didn’t get the chance to see the Private’s attempt at the marksman challenge. Having to hurry past the firing range instead. Just to catch up in time before he disappeared in the bustle. Only the echo of rapid gunshots and sounds of cheering were heard behind you. You were led further into the base’s center to a cluster of temper tents and pop-up canopies. It was busier this time of day. Personnel went in and out of the field tents carrying manila folders and field reports. Squads of soldiers prepared themselves for the field, packing up their ammunition and filling up their water canteens for the day.

While other soldiers sat underneath tarpaulin awnings that sufficed as an open-air mess hall of sorts. Full of endless chatter and laughing, and the scratching sounds of cutlery on metal platters. Scraping their plates clean, not leaving any morsel or crumb. From it came the smell of hot chow wafting in the air: chicken, pork chops, vegetables, rice, and boiled legumes. Being seared on flat top grills, served from their pots and pans onto wood tables. Even though you haven’t eaten since the early morning of your departure, the pungent smells of lunch only intensified the queasiness you felt. Your nausea hadn't diminished nor had your nerves. Even now as you were led to one of the canopy tents ahead.

Beyond the green tarp flap, a small gathering lingered inside. Surrounding a circular table, discussing quietly between themselves. But only to go dead silent as the Lieutenant approached the mouth of the tent with you in tow. From what you could tell they were all higher officers if their insignia patches and uniforms were anything to go by. But between them all, standing at the head of the table, the base commander eyed you both intensely. Stalwart, serious. Stiff postured. With sheared hair the color of polished gunmetal.

The Lieutenant was the first to proceed. Stepped forward and saluted the whole tent full of higher-ups with a polite ‘sir’. Standing so perfectly at attention it was like he was back in formation. With a simple gesture of dismissal, the gathering dispersed. Filing out of the tent like a row of waddling ducks. Walking past you as if you weren’t even there.

“Lieutenant Weiss,” The base commander nodded.

An acknowledgement more than a greeting. But his eyes were quick to land back on you. Standing a few feet behind the other soldier.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. I’ll take it from here. You are dismissed.” He said, without turning his attention away from you.

Lieutenant Weiss moved aside, giving you one final glance before shouldering past you. You straightened your spine, conceding the superior’s seniority with a salute of your own. The base commander rounded the table and walked forward just as your arm fell to your side. He let the silence linger a bit longer between you two. Only made you shift your weight on your heels. But eventually he spoke, narrowing his gaze at you.

Disappointedly, you came to realize.

“So you’re the person I’ve been waiting all day for.”

The base commander looked you up and down for a moment, sizing you up. Processing your presence. Underwhelmed by first impressions.

“Hm, you’re not what I expected. Hell, you don't even seem to fit the damn bill. The way they hold you up as some sort of mastermind prodigy I expected well… more.”

He let his words settle. You knew he awaited a reply. To bite back and dissuade any doubts given about yourself or your skillset. You thought you would. At least disagree with him. But nothing rose, nothing conjured up.

“If I didn’t know any better I’d say they sent me the wrong person for the job. But if there’s anything I learned over the years it's that taking someone at face value will only be a disservice in the long run.”

The commander sighed out more wearily than was intended as his composure fell. But he was swift to stiffen his shoulders again and correct his posture. “I’m sure I don't need to give you the rundown of things. You know what needs to be done and what is required of you. You’ll be working closely with Russell Adler.”

Something in you stirred, writhing.

The details of your debrief were foggy. But the name seemed awfully distinct. Too familiar. Like an old wound, there came a phantom pain. Skin prickled and cold sweat gathered down your spine. Empty traces of memories came and went. Too convoluted and obscure; too fleeting to fully grasp. Washed away like silt in a rushing stream.

“Adler?” You repeated. Whisper-like from your sudden breathlessness. Such a name carried weight. But on your tongue, it felt like an imprecation.

“Correct, you’ll be assigned to his team and will take direct orders from him from now on.” He eyed you, “Is that a problem?”

You paused, taken aback by the question. Licking your dry lips, you shook your head. “Of course not, sir.”

“Good. The man's a damn bastard. He’s got a particular way of doing things but he’ll bring out that potential in you I’m sure.”

From the way he paused again, the commander intended to elaborate more. But the sound of revving engines and heavy wheels crunching on dirt gravel behind the tent cut through the conversation.

“Speak of the Devil.” The commander said, chuffing out a dry laugh. You turned your attention back to him as he walked forward. Stopping in the entry of the tent and then turned to you.

“Let's hope you exceed expectations.”

With that, the base commander stepped outside of the tent. And a second later, you did the same. Followed behind him closer than you did Lieutenant Weiss as he walked between the rows of tents and onto a dirt road directly behind them. A convoy of vehicles were parked on the sidelines along the fencing. Offloading platoons that jumped off from the backs of them. Tired, sweaty, and dirty. Returning back from the field.

The commander stopped walking and you stood beside him as he scanned the soldiers across the way.

“Adler!” He barked out toward a group of soldiers hopping out from one of the vehicles in the back of the convoy. In that loud, stern military tone that made the other soldiers stop and grow stiff.

From the drove of soldiers, a silhouette emerged in the afternoon sun. And you faltered. Stunned suddenly by a concentrated sun glare. You shielded your face. Crushed your eyelids together, flinching away from the brightness. While the sound of heavy boots on the gravelled road stalked forward, getting closer and closer.

Until the footsteps came to a stop in front of you both.

In the glare of the sun stood an imposing figure. Tall and broad-shouldered. Framed entirely by an angelic glow that seemed to suffuse into your surroundings. Blinding, nauseatingly bright. It was hard to look up. Like the onset of an eclipse, it hurt to stare too long.

“Colonel.” Greeted a velvety voice; sonorous and smooth like silk.

And your stomach twists. A dread, unprofound.

(Nothing forgets the feel of teeth and claws.)

His large shadow fell over you, blocking out the sun. Still you struggled to see. Your eyesight bleached white. You blinked over and over, slowly opening your eyes. Squinting hard as everything started to take shape around you. Subsequently, gradually, the figure grew clearer. Stinging, watery eyes yet you braved a look. A single glance.

And all at once the world seemed to fall away, time itself slowed. Face-to-face with the man himself.

Russell Adler.

Dressed in olive green fatigues that reeked of the jungle. Sweat, gunpowder, mud and rancid water. Overtaken now by the stench of a lit cigarette balanced between his lips. The residual smoke caught in your sinuses, filling your lungs like a house fire. Instinctively, your eyes went straight to his. Only to meet the mirrored lenses of sunglasses perched on a strong Roman nose. Eyes hidden, though it didn’t shield you away from the intensity of his gaze. Or the asphyxiating feeling it churned deep inside your fickle, feeble ribs. To a rabbit heart that thumped wildly against its bone cage. Overcome with instinctual fear.

“Adler,” The base commander nodded, hands clasped behind his back. “Brought you something.”

Smoke fell from the man’s parted lips.

“Hm, better smokes?”

“A new member of your team.” The commander corrected. “I trust you’ll be accommodating.”

Adler took a puff of his half-smoked cigarette. Your reflection stared back at you in his dark lenses. A shiver shot down your spine like an ice spike, hair raised at your nape. As the corner of his lips rose into a small smile.

“I’ll be sure to find good use for ’em, sir.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” He looked between you both. “I expect results.” You felt the commander’s ironclad stare on you as the finality left his mouth. Aimed at you deliberately.

Adler grumbled a low prusten, cigarette burning between his fingers.

With that, the commander stepped away. Within seconds of leaving, he was already pulled into other business. Guided away towards the field tents and lost into the crowd. Leaving you alone with Adler. You shuffled on the balls of your feet. As a tense silence befell you both. A beat came and went, then he moved. A body shift that made your head immediately shoot up, body tensed, startled by the movement.

Adler tilted his head to the side. Motioning for you to follow as he sauntered off. You watched him go, unable to move yourself. Feet rooted to the ground, limbs made of lead. When he noticed that you weren’t behind him, Adler stopped and turned. Eyebrows knitted together in a questioning look.

“You coming or what, kid?” He asked.

You stared at him for a moment. Sun beating down on you, exposed to it now with the absence of his shadow. You took an uneven breath. Despite yourself, despite your gut feeling, you stepped forward and followed him.

(How easily you are led astray, alongside a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Your fate is sealed. You walk with death now.)

The crowd between the tents parted into two, leaving a clear and undisturbed path for Adler as he strode on through. You trailed behind Adler, lingering with enough interspace put between you and him to not lose track of him while also remaining at a safe distance. Eyes were on you both, curious and watchful. Whispering to each other. Peeking out from the surrounding tents and makeshift pallet sheds. Sheltered away from the high noon sun. Vinyls played cherry sweet songs in the background to omit the unabating melancholy and despair of Camp Haskins. But how could they not stare?

Like you, Adler wasn’t exempt from the attention of other soldiers. But unlike you, the looks and whispers given were derived more from admiration and camaraderie. You saw the way they looked at him. How they reacted to him and greeted him. With nods and smiles, waves and whistles; such simple recognitions to him. But to you, it spoke volumes. Adler was a man that was well-respected, well-received. And not to be taken lightly.

Adler slowed at open tents ahead. Stopping just before the mouth of one of the open tents, peering over his shoulder to make sure you were still behind him. Boisterous laughter and talking echoed from inside making you uneasy. Reluctantly you followed Adler inside. A group of men were strewn around the interior. Sat on cots, wood boxes and ammo boxes. Leaned on tables and against stacked crates. Half-quart beer cans and whiskey bottles gathered on a table top in the center where a card game was currently taking place.

Poker, you realized.

“Adler! Just the man we’ve been waiting on! Nice of you to finally join us. Was worried you got caught up in some more bullshit.”

Adler only hummed, cigarette idle in his hand.

“Well, it doesn’t seem like you did much waiting.” Adler gestured to the empty cans and bottles, then took a slow drag of his cigarette. “I see you got the party goin’ without me, Sims.”

“Yeah, well. Better to get it started than to sit around, twiddling our thumbs and waiting on you. S’like I said, I thought you —”

The man, Sims, went quiet when he finally noticed you. As did the rest of the tent. An uncomfortable moment passed before the man let out a laugh.

“So I was right. You did get caught up in some bullshit.”

Adler’s gaze narrowed, blowing out a rush of smoke. “Always the brazen type, Sims.”

The man, Sims, only shrugged with a wide smile, folding his hand. The action made the other players stop their staring and resume the game. “So… this the ‘new one’ then?”

“Something like that. Gonna be working with us from now on.” Adler declared. Spoke more to everybody in the tent than to just Sims.

“Goin’ to show ’em around. Try not to lose all your chips while I’m gone, Sims.”

“Got no faith in me, Doc. Just one good hand and I’ll win it all. You’ll see.”

But Adler wasn’t convinced.

He led you back out of the tent, crushing the finished cigarette with the twisting of his boot heel. Still you kept distance between you both, trailing a few paces behind.

“Welcome to Camp Haskins. Our little oasis in the middle of this godforsaken shitstorm.”

Adler introduced so casually that you couldn't take any other way but derisive, acrid. Nonetheless, he showed you the basic layout of the base. Pointed out what everything was and where everything was located, various facilities and all. But you barely categorized a lot of them. Occupied instead by him, by his presence. Watching, ever observant. The nature of espionage was instinctual to you. At this distance, at arm’s length, you couldn’t help but take in the sight of the man in front of you, despite yourself. Caution thrown to the wind. But you were simple in some regards; no one was immune to charisma. So you looked and stared, just like the other soldiers did.

Adler was the embodiment of an all American man. Clean-shaven, square-jawed, and… ruggedly handsome — despite the obstruction of his shades. His disheveled helmet hair was brushed to the side in a semblance of a groomed hairstyle. The color of it was burnished by the sun until it burned like an aureole, a crown of light.

(But you could see past the surface level beauty, can’t you? Look closely, to where all the ugliness and madness lies just beneath the skin.)

But the glory and gore of war was already skin deep. Into the trenches of a weathered face where camouflage paint was slashed across hardened features, smudged now by sweat and grime. It was nothing less of a battle-hardened, war worn soldier. There was beauty, there was madness in him. You saw it as Adler led you to your sleeping quarters, a tent shared with other soldiers. Even now as he bid you a farewell so you could get adjusted, unpack and get some rest for what tomorrow would bring. You laid in your hard army cot, your duffle bag untouched in the corner. Overwhelmed with a wave of exhaustion like you had stayed up for days.

You closed your eyes and dreamed of death.

◼◼◼◼◼◼◼◼◼◼◼◼◼◼◼◼◼◼◼

It was getting hard to breathe.

No matter how much you wiped away the sweat streams and matted strands from your face. Took gulps from your canteen or pulled up your sleeves. The suffocation remained.

You were only a couple kilometers into the jungle and already you felt its bite. Cascades of sweat were already sheening on your skin, gathered on your brow. And already your uniform started to feel like a second skin, clinging to you from all the clamminess. You thought yourself prepared mentally and physically. But your debrief or specified training didn’t fully prepare you for this sort of misery. Of an inescapable and persistent humidity that didn’t take long to sink its teeth in you. A sweltering heat insulated by the density of all the trees. Canopies that were heavily intertwined in growth like tapestry; their branches woven together so tightly that they were indistinguishable from each other.

You weren’t the only one affected. So were the rest of Adler’s team.

From their footslogging, they were as miserable as you were. But they endured and continued, without a complaint or slowing down. So you did the same and kept on walking further into an endless jungle without an end in sight. But it wasn’t just for nothing that was for certain. You remembered earlier. Hours before. When Adler had arrived at your tent to fetch you in the morning. Seemingly surprised that you were wide awake and already dressed.

“You’re up early. Thought’d you be out cold.” Adler had commented while he walked you to the open-aired mess hall. “Hope you got decent sleep, we’ve got a job to do.”

You had sat at the same table as Adler’s team albeit at the far end of the table bench. Spacing still kept, at arm's length to everyone. No one had commented on the distance you put between everyone, especially him. But you didn't eat breakfast. That feeling in your gut had stayed and so had the nausea. You weren’t keeping up with the conversations. Only bits and pieces: how Sims lost all his chips last night then again by no other than Adler, how the eggs and ham tasted like rubber, or even how hot it always quickly gets. Mindless chatter to pass the time.

“Hutch and his boys got ambushed down by the ridge while out on yesterday’s patrol.” Adler had told everyone after breakfast. “That piece of land’s a prime piece of real estate. Too valuable to give up. Got orders to zap ’em. So gear up. We leave within the hour.”

You had followed steps behind Sims and some other members towards a provisional tent to stock up on ammunition.

“Heard Hutch got hit during the entire thing.” Sims had said.

“Yeah and got his ass saved by a single stripe Private.” One of the members had added, but you couldn’t make out which one.

“Think it's enough to send him back home?”

Another member had shook his head. “Nah, it's a through and through. They’ll have him back in the field within the month I reckon.”

You all had met Adler within the hour, on the dot. He was dressed in jungle fatigues, ammo, grenades and the rest of his gear strapped to his utility vest. M16 cradled in his hands, a boonie hat on his head. Tiger stripes across his face and arms. Without delay, all of you had gone to the airfield and hopped on a helicopter. A short ride later, you had been dropped off miles away from the destination. You and Adler’s team would have to trek the rest of the way there.

The assignment had seemed simple enough then. Go to the ridge, eliminate the enemy, and make it back just in time for dinner. But nothing was ever so simple in the hellscape of the Vietnam jungle you would soon come to realize. Adler took point, Sims at his right, and you at the back. Covering the team’s flank. But together you all moved as one through the underbrush. Carefully and silently, slow and steady. Wary for any booby traps and trip mines even this far out in the jungle. But you were all close to the ridge.

Still, the heat was getting to you. More than you thought possible. In the silence of the jungle, you heard it. Beneath the ambiance, in the background of you and the team’s trampling through the undergrowth. Voices in the trees. Smudges of shadow just beyond the treeline where the eye could barely see. Watching, waiting. For the perfect opportunity. Then beeps, a loud beeping. Like a ticking clock, a heartbeat. Your own? No, you recognized the sound. Of a hospital room, medical machines monitored in tandem. Then something softer. Wind chimes, the gentle ringing from a belfry in the far, far distance.

You wiped the sweat from your brow. Head pounding. . You placed a hand against a tree, but you didn't feel the rough texture, instead it felt papery and painted underneath your fingers. Like paper mache. And the undergrowth brushed against your arms, was nothing but fabric and plastic. You blinked. The jungle changed before your eyes, dissolving like an illusion. And all you saw was white. White walls, white flooring. A hallway. The sterile scent of peroxide and bleach. Shadows behind windows, peering through. Watching, waiting. You walked faster, panic and confusion fueled your steps. But the hallway grew longer, endless. You weren’t allowed to leave just yet.

Until you collided with something, someone.

“What the hell? — ” A harsh mumble through gritted teeth.

You looked up, wide-eyed. Shades filled your vision, as well as a downturned scowl. As your surroundings settled back in place.

“Get your head out of the clouds, kid.”

He grabbed you, hand pressed down on your shoulder, and pulled you down into a crouch. Only then did you notice that the whole team was crouched as well, hiding behind the boughs and piles of dead leaves and vines. And all staring at you.

“Since the new one’s so eager, could send ’em in as a distraction, Doc.” Sims, who was leaning against a tree trunk across from you, whispered. “Get them all focused on a single person.”

Adler seemed to consider it, his scowl turning into a thoughtful press of his lips. He turned towards you, making you flinch.

“I want you to get up there.” Adler pointed out a mound between the trees not too far from where you were all at. “You’ll get a better view of where those VietCong are hiding. Pick a target and on my say, take ’em out. That should flush them all out. Think you can manage?”

You swallowed. “Yessir.”

Adler nodded at you, sending you off.

Quietly and carefully, you snuck your way through the trees. Your rifle clutched tight in your hands, your helmet feeling heavier on your head.

The trees seemed to lean in closer and closer, closing in all around you. Squeezed and pressed around you like a tight fist, suffocating you.

White noise in your ears, static that clears into a voice.

“You in position?”

“Almost, sir.” You replied.

You bellied yourself towards the top of the mound, settling into a spot. You stared down your scope, but all you saw was green. “I’m in position.”

“See anything?” Adler asked.

“Nothing.”

“Stay focused. Won’t be long until they walk right into your sights.”

You shifted on your elbows, nestling yourself in the dirt and ferns. “Copy.”

But Adler was right. It wasn’t long before you noticed some movement below you. Figures emerged from between the trees, stalking out like big cats. You couldn’t gauge how many there were but from what you can tell, it was a group of them. Outnumbered Adler’s team — even with you included .

“See ’em?”

You blinked at Adler’s words over the radio. “Yessir, see a group of them walking towards you.”

“Good. Have a target picked out?”

You hovered your scope over one of them, walking just outside of the formation.

“I do.”

“Take the shot.”

With an intake of breath, you steadied your rifle scope. Finger hovered over the trigger, as your crosshairs align with the target’s head. Slowly, you released your breath and took the shot. The sound of it echoed throughout the trees, a finality that left a ringing in your ears. Watching as the soldier’s body slumped to the ground in the scope. Immediately, a firefight broke out as Adler and his team started their surprise assault. But it was a blur to you. Bullets flew around you, the flash of muzzles in the foliage. Yelled Vietnamese in one ear, team comms buzzed in the other. Screams of dying soldiers collapsing to the ground. With your advantage on the mound, you tried your best to take out as many enemies as you could. When they tried to reposition when Adler and his team advanced forward, gaining ground.

You moved down the top of the mound, taking cover as you were reloading your rifle. Hands shaky with adrenaline as you tried to insert a fresh mag. Something moved below you, just in the corner of your eye. The flash of a rifle in a stray sunstream, aiming right at you. You ducked as the rifle was unloaded towards your direction. Sweat poured down your face, stinging your eyes. Your rifle clicked, the hammer pulled back, reloaded. You heard running footsteps and yells behind your position. Coming straight for you. You heard them close in on you. From what you could garner, there’s a few of them. You laid still, finger ghosting over the trigger as the footsteps crunching against the dried leaves grow closer. As they crested over the top, without hesitation, you unloaded your mag into them. Taking out two of them, injuring another, before a fourth rushed forward. Body collided with body, as the enemy grappled with you. Your rifle pinned against your chest, the bayonet blade of his rifle sunk into the dirt beside your waist.

He tried to keep you still on the ground, an opportunity for his injured teammate to force himself up and aim his rifle at you. You pushed your hips up, boots on the ground, as you bucked the enemy soldier off of you. Just enough to lift up your rifle and shoot the injured soldier before he could get his shot off on you. As instant as your shot, your rifle was kicked out of your hands. You recoiled back, a punch colliding with your jaw as the soldier climbed on top of you again. Grappled with you again, as you tried to reach for your knife. Using all your strength to push, you shifted your weight, bucking him off. The momentum of the maneuver pulled you with him as he fell backwards and tumbling down the mound into the jungle ground below.

Body met the ground, dirt and twigs scraping against your skin. Your head throbbed, mouth filling with blood from a bitten tongue. You groaned, pulling yourself up. Your enemy was doing the same across from you. Your knife laid in the middle between you both. You lunged forward, grabbing your knife just as he rushed for you. You’re on your back again, hand clasped around your knife handle. It was a battle of might as you tried to push your knife into the soldier’s chest while he pushed against your arms, trying to twist the knife around and aim it towards you. Gritted teeth sneered above you, saliva falling from jowls. You felt your wrist bent, arms strained as your enemy used his weight to his advantage. Used it as leverage to pin your arms to your side, making the knife all that much closer to your chest.

A split decision as you loosened your grip, letting the knife fall from your hand and onto the ground. A foolish decision, sure. Letting go of your only advantage. But it was enough to make your enemy falter, stupefied by it. You mustered all your strength, a last ditch effort as you kneed his abdomen. Pushing up, flipping you both over. You hit him once. Then twice, then more and more until you felt his nose shatter beneath your fists. Teeth cracked and pieces rattled inside his mouth.

You grabbed a rock by his head, your knees pinning his arms down, as you brought it down. Over and over. Feeling how easily the stone cracked through bone. Until his head was caved in. All mush, skull shards, and mangled blood vessels. Like fish chum in an angler’s bucket.

You let the bloodied rock drop from your hand, right next to the crime scene. You moved away, falling backwards against a fallen log and trying to catch your breath. Your mouth flooded with blood, the overflow trickled out of the corner of your mouth. Staining your shirt. All you could do was sit there, even as the sounds of exchanged gunfire ended and the jungle went silent. You didnt how long you sat there against the rotten log. Long enough that the radio was nothing but white noise in your ears, the voices disembodied.

Soon you heard more footsteps in the distance. Approaching you from the side. You instantly went tense as a figure broke through the treeline in the corner of your eye. You took a breath. In your bleary vision was Adler. He stalked forward in a slow manner, gun raised. He eyed your kill on the ground, still twitching and bleeding. Brain matter splattered all along the ground just like a prion infected deer. Your eyes followed him, adrenaline still coursing through your veins. Danger still blared in your head. You watched as he stopped and looked down to your knife by his boot. He reached down and picked it up, brushing off the dirt on the blade. You could already tell he connected the dots on what happened.

As he eyed your unbloodied blade and the bloodied rock next to the dead VietCong.

He stood over you now. His rifle lowered to his side. He flipped the knife, catching it as it turned in the air. The blade in his gloved hand and the handle offered out to you. You grabbed your knife, putting it back in its sheath on your side. He extended an arm out to you, an offer of a hand up. You reached out, accepting his helping hand. Let him pull you back on your feet as he steadied you. His hand went to your shoulder, the weight grounding you. There was a knowing look on his face as it softened, just slightly. Something akin to a confessor that knew the nature of sins to a sinner.

Adler gave you a smile. Sardonic and sharp yet genuine. Proud.

“Welcome to Vietnam, kid.”

You let out a strangled breath, feeling something in your chest ache and stir, coiling around your heart like barbed wire until every heartbeat stung. The roots of guerilla warfare, much like jungle rot, burgeoned underneath his sun-kissed skin. And now it sprouted underneath yours.

(Hand-in-hand with the Devil. Look him in the eye and see how he looks like a long-lost friend.)

But for that single moment, the world around you seemed to disappear. Where only he, and that smile, remained.

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A/N:

Critique welcomed as long as it is constructive and polite (don't be rude/mean pretty please ◡̈ ).

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#call of duty #cod fanfic #cod #black ops cold war #call of duty black ops cold war #russell adler #bell cod #adler x bell #russell adler x bell #russell adler x reader #russell adler x oc #ao3 fanfic #ao3 link #bo6

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swan-of-sunrise · 1 year ago

Text

Taking Care of Business (Chapter Forty-Six)

Summary: Din worries about (Y/N) and her inexplicable illness but when he returns to Nevarro from a hunt, he's met with a stunning surprise.

Pairing: Din Djarin X F!Reader

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings/Disclaimers: None

A/N: Hi guys! I promised you guys fluff in this chapter, so fluff you shall receive! Thank you for reading, I hope you all enjoy!

Chapter Forty-Six The Surprise (Previous Chapter)

From the moment they first met, Din Djarin knew that Captain (Y/N) (Y/L/N) was a strong, intelligent and courageous woman. She could out-fly seasoned pilots without breaking a sweat, draw her blaster quicker than any hot-shot gunslinger in the Outer Rim and strategize the most complex battle plans with nothing more than a few words of intel and her immense determination. In all the time he’d known her, she’d survived cuts, burns, sprains, breaks, concussions and blaster wounds and had come out on the other side of all of them tougher and stronger than before, and that wasn’t even accounting for the injuries she’d sustained as a smuggler for both herself and for the Rebel Alliance. Needless to say, Din knew that his wife could take care of herself on and off the battlefield, which was why her current bout of illness was worrying him so much.

At first, Din chalked (Y/N)’s cramping, headaches and fatigue up to anxiety; in between helping him capture bounties for the New Republic, the captain had been hard at work preparing her brand-new seamstress shop for its grand opening, setting up the shop’s inviting interior by hand and training a handful of assistants to work the various machines. She was thrilled to finally make her dream of practicing her mother’s trade a reality, but it was clear that she was also nervous about the new venture. It wasn’t until her near-constant nausea and vomiting began that Din started growing concerned for his wife’s dwindling health; he’d all but begged her to visit Nevarro’s health clinic for a check-up, his mounting worry even trumping his deep-rooted mistrust of droids.

Unfortunately, the captain’s scheduled appointment clashed with Din’s mission to apprehend an escaped Imperial informant and just as he prepared to inform Captain Teva that he was unable to accept the mission, (Y/N) insisted that he still go after the bounty and that she’d be fine going to the health clinic by herself. Din, less than pleased with the arrangement but unwilling to add to her stress by arguing, kissed his wife and son goodbye and left for Manpha; he used all of his well-honed bounty hunting skills to track down and capture the Imp in less than twenty-four hours, dropping him off on Adelphi for Captain Teva to legally apprehend on behalf of the New Republic and speeding through the Hydian Way back home to Nevarro.

“Welcome to Nevarro, independent trade anchor and Outer Rim Hyperlane port. Please state the purpose of your-”

“Jarsa, I know you know that I live here. You don’t have to ask me to state the purpose of my visit every kriffing time I return home.”

Din could practically hear the docking bay manager’s exasperated eye-roll before she stiffly replied, “And as I’ve already told you, Mando, if you have a complaint about our regulations then you’ll have to take it up with Magistrate Karga. State the purpose of your visit, please.”

After muttering a string of curses under his breath, Din heaved a sigh and replied through gritted teeth, “Returning to my place of residence. Happy?”

“You may now initiate landing sequences. Have a pleasant day.”

Din grumbled a biting insult in Mando’a as he expertly landed the N-1 Starfighter down onto their assigned spot and jumped down from the cockpit the moment the starship’s engines shut off; he strode through the crowded docking bay with purpose and once he reached the city gate, he spared a glance at the nearby designated speeder docking lot. After spotting their blue and silver land speeder docked at the end of the nearest aisle, he all but jogged through the city gate and hurried down the crowded streets, finally skidding to a stop in front of his wife’s half-finished seamstress shop.

Leafy branches of purple and white flowers framed the shop’s doorway and the large window displayed two empty dress forms, both waiting to be fitted in the seamstress’s finest creations, and above the window hung a sign written in Aurebesh: House of (Y/L/N). Through the window, Din could see a couple of shop assistants organizing a rack of fabric bolts and he felt himself begin to relax when (Y/N) walked into view; the captain was directing another assistant as he balanced on a ladder and installed a hologram projector above a vacant niche, her authoritative posture and the way she practically glowed with excitement warming Din’s heart and making him smile for the first time in days. She was dressed in one of her original designs, a lavender jumpsuit and flowing silver-colored embroidered cloak that synched at her waist, and her hair was pulled into a simple style inspired by her Naboo heritage; she looks a lot healthier than she did when I left, he thought with an inward sigh of relief, maybe she was right and it was only a simple stomach bug.

“Mando!” Din turned to see Greef Karga striding down the cobblestone street towards him while his protocol droid teetered close behind. “Back already? That might’ve been your fastest hunt yet!”

“(Y/N) hasn’t been feeling very well lately, so I wanted to make sure she wouldn’t be alone with Grogu and the shop for too long,” Din explained before nodding towards the shop in question. “Have things been quiet around here today?”

The High Magistrate chuckled. “It has, but I did receive a few reports of your little guy getting up to some mischief by chasing Kowakian monkey-lizards in the main courtyard; other than causing a little ruckus and delaying the cantina’s food shipment by a few minutes, there was absolutely no harm done.” Din bit back a wince at that; since (Y/N) had fallen ill, Grogu’s behavior had been more unpredictable than usual and while they believed that he was only concerned for her health, his antics weren’t exactly alleviating any of their stress. “However, I was hoping that you and your lovely wife could explain to him that that sort of behavior’s really meant more for the city’s playground and not its busy streets.”

“Of course.”

“Good! Now, I have some business to attend to down at the docking bay, something about a disgruntled dock manager…” In that moment, Din was grateful that his expression was hidden away behind his beskar helmet. “Be sure to give Captain (Y/L/N) my best!”

“I will.” Din watched the High Magistrate and his protocol droid stroll down the street and when they turned the corner, he heaved a weary sigh and turned to enter House of (Y/L/N). A pleasant jingle sounded throughout the shop the moment he stepped through the threshold, causing everyone to look away from their tasks and towards the doorway; Din’s eyes were trained on the captain as her features were brightened by a happy smile and he was only barely listening as she dismissed her apprentices for the day, too distracted by her shining (Y/E/C) eyes and the way her jumpsuit hugged her curves beneath the sheer silver cloak.

“I think we’ll go ahead and call it a day. Thank you for all your hard work today, and have a wonderful rest of your afternoon!” (Y/N) called after the apprentices, locking the front door and rolling the privacy shade down over the window before launching herself into Din’s waiting arms with an elated laugh. “I wasn’t expecting you back until tomorrow! How’d the hunt go? Any injuries? How’s Captain Teva these days?”

Din chuckled, gently set her back down on her feet but holding her close to him. “Puhoi daab, ner cyar’ika alor’ad. The hunt was successful, Teva sends his regards and I’m not injured, but I’m more concerned about you right now.” He pulled back and removed his helmet, setting it down on one of the workbenches before holding his wife at arm’s length and examining her for any lingering signs of illness. “How did your appointment go?”

“The med droids said that it was just my body responding to stress; they suggested I eat some ginger root, drink plenty of fluids and get some rest.” Din breathed a sigh of relief but when he opened his mouth to interject, (Y/N)’s finger moved to rest on his lips to stop him and she gave him a knowing smile. “I bought some ginger root at the market after my appointment, I already drank two bottles of water today and we can go home, just as soon as I put some things away and lock up.” She lightly tapped the end of his nose with her finger as her eyes twinkled with affection. “Ner atin beroya.”

Shaking his head in playful exasperation, Din leaned down and gave his wife another kiss before letting her go and watching her fasten cloth coverings over displays filled with bolts of material; he took a seat at the nearby workbench, knowing better than to get in the captain’s way while she worked in her element, and he glanced inquiringly around the shop. “Where’s Grogu?”

“Asleep in the backroom; that little womp rat spent the morning chasing Kowakian monkey-lizards in the courtyard, and then he scarfed down an entire pack of roasted Kajaka Root before passing out!” When Din snorted in amusement, (Y/N) turned around with her hands on her hips and shot him a pointed look, all while fighting back a smile of her own. “Din, we can’t just let our son terrorize the citizens and local wildlife of Nevarro; we have to try and discipline him.”

He tugged his leather gloves off and nodded. “You’re right, alor’ad. I promised Karga that we’d talk to him and try to reign him in a little, but I don’t know how effective we’ll be; Grogu’s older than the both of us, after all.”

While (Y/N) breezed past with a tray filled with spools of colorful thread, she briefly paused to press a chaste kiss onto his temple and crossed the shop to place it in an open cabinet. “If we put our minds to it, we can do pretty much anything…even if it means finding a way to convince a fifty-plus year old Force-wielding child to behave himself. It’ll be a slice of uj’alayi, you’ll see!” She stacked another two trays of beads and embellishments in the cabinet before calling out, “R5, could you come here and lock these cabinets for me, please?” The astromech droid rolled out from the backroom and stopped in front of the data port near the captain, using his scomp link to close and lock all of the shop’s cabinets. “Thank you, R5.”

The astromech released a string of beeps and whistles as he rolled away, and Din watched the droid leave with the barest of smiles on his face. “You know, I think R5 likes it here.”

“A seasoned Rebellion veteran like R5 deserves a peaceful retirement,” (Y/N) replied, a mischievous gleam in her (Y/E/C) eyes as she shrugged her shoulders. “Well, a mostly peaceful retirement; he does have to put up with a grumpy Mandalorian on a regular basis.”

“Mir’sheb. You really must be feeling better if you’ve got the energy to tease your poor husband.” Din chuckled as his wife rolled her eyes and moved an empty dress form into the closest corner.

Glancing around the workbench he was leaning on, he picked up the captain’s well-worn holo-pad and swiped through her newest design sketches, marveling at the artistry and imagination present in every little detail. “Oh, those are some new designs for an upcoming line of maternity wear.”

Din swiped away from a panel of blouses and trousers to see a panel filled with day dresses and nightgowns, and he smiled up at (Y/N) when she moved to lean against the workbench. “They’re pretty, alor’ad. Some of your best work yet.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.” When he turned his attention back to the holo-pad, the captain’s fingers gently carded through his messy curls as she continued. “I still need to tweak the silhouettes and figure out which fabrics to use for certain designs. Luckily, I’ll be able to test them all out on myself before I decide which ones to produce for the shop.”

“Yeah, that’s-wait, what?” Din’s head snapped up and everything around him seemed to fade away as his widened eyes met (Y/N)’s; he was barely aware of setting the holo-pad down and turning in his seat to face her, his mind only able to focus on the soft hands cradling his face and the tears beginning to well up in his wife’s eyes. “…When you said you’d be able to test them out on yourself, did you mean…?”

(Y/N) nodded and smiled widely through her tears of joy. “I’m pregnant, Din. We’re gonna have another child.”

An overjoyed grin spread across Din’s face and with a laugh of delighted disbelief, he jumped to his feet and enveloped (Y/N) in a tight embrace that she was quick to return; the captain giggled when he suddenly lifted her off her feet and spun her in a circle, her sheer silver cloak fluttering around their legs and twinkling under the shop’s bright lights. When he set her down on her feet, she took him by surprise when her lips quickly met his in a passionate kiss; one of his hands held her cheek while the other slid down to rest on the curve of her waist, and he couldn’t contain his blissful moan as her fingers tangled into his hair. It was when Din noticed the captain’s knees weakening that he pulled away, chuckling at her noise of protest but making it up to her by pressing feather-light kisses along her cheekbone and forehead. “So that’s why you’ve been so nauseated and exhausted lately, isn’t it? How far along are you?”

“Five weeks,” (Y/N) replied, still a little breathless as she allowed him to brush and kiss her errant tears away. “The med droids prescribed me some prenatal vitamins and after taking them with a cup of ginger root tea, I’m feeling much, much better.” She kissed his palm and gazed up at him, her (Y/E/C) eyes sparkling with elation. “Are you happy, sweetheart?”

Din nodded vigorously, giving his wife a tender smile as his thumb delicately caressed the soft skin of her cheek. “I-I’m…Alor’ad, this is one of the happiest moments of my whole life. Ni kyr’tayl gar darasuum, ner cyar’ika riduur.”

“Ni kyr’tayl gar darasuum, ner cyar’ika riduur,” (Y/N) whispered back before standing on her tiptoes and capturing his lips in another passion-filled kiss. After several blissful moments, she pulled away and laughed a little to herself when Din chased after her lips. “And that’s just the sort of behavior that got us in this situation in the first place…”

“You said that you’re five weeks along? You know, I seem to recall an incident five weeks ago when you pulled me into the backroom and-” His wife hastily silenced him with a kiss and he chuckled against her lips as he readily kissed her back, leaning back after several heartbeats and moving his arms to hold her around the waist. “Are you happy, ner cyar’ika alor’ad?”

“I couldn’t be any happier, sweetheart.” Reaching down, (Y/N) took one of Din’s hands and moved it to rest on her abdomen; it was unchanged, free of any indication that the manifestation of their loving bond was growing within, but just knowing that their baby was there made Din’s heart burst with pure and unadulterated joy. “You should know that I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that Grogu’s known about his little brother or sister for quite some time.”

For a split-second, Din’s brows furrowed in confusion but realization quickly dawned on him. “Through the Force…wait, is that even how the Force works?”

(Y/N) shrugged. “I have no idea, but it explains why he’s been so excitable lately; the poor little guy’s been trying to tell us about the baby for weeks and we had no way of understanding him.”

As if he’d been secretly listening in on their conversation, Grogu’s floating pram drifted into the shop from the backroom and with a coo of happiness, he leapt into the air and landed in Din’s waiting arm; the child nuzzled his wrinkled green face against Din’s cowl before clinging onto (Y/N)’s jumpsuit, babbling excitedly as he stretched his clawed hand down towards her abdomen. “You excited to have a little brother or sister, kid?” Din and (Y/N) both burst into laughter at their son’s withering side-eye, and Din gave one of the child’s large ears an affectionate rub. “Yeah, I know, that’s a pretty dumb question to ask you. But now that we finally know what you’ve been trying to tell us, you’ve gotta behave yourself in public, okay? No more chasing the city’s vermin in the courtyard and stressing your mother out.”

Grogu responded by blowing a loud raspberry and somersaulting back into his pram, only to pull a small package of blue cookies out from under his blankets and begin munching on one. “Well, no one can say that you didn’t try,” The captain quipped, fighting a losing battle against the grin that was spreading across her face as her eyes sparkled with mischief. “After all, everyone knows that a bounty hunter’s negotiation skills are inferior to those of a smuggler.”

“Is that so?” Din smirked at their familiar rapport, wrapping his arms back around her waist and straightening his posture so that (Y/N)’s weight rested against his and their gazes were nearly leveled. “Any chance I can change your mind with a bubble bath and a package of Chandrilan chocolate?”

(Y/N) arched a playful brow at that. “You really think that bribery will work on me?”

“Of course, everyone knows that smugglers can’t resist a good bribe.”

“Mir’sheb!” Din chuckled at his wife’s exaggerated gasp of outrage, which was soon followed by a grin. “You’re lucky that I love you so much, Din Djarin.”

“Yes, I am. Right now, I’d wager that I’m the luckiest man in the galaxy,” He answered honestly and her eyes shone with tenderness as she held his face between her hands. “You and Grogu and this baby are my life, ner cyar’ika alor’ad, and I swear on all the stars I’ll never leave your side.” Tears filled the captain’s eyes and after pressing a sweet kiss onto his lips, she nuzzled her face into his cowl and tightened her hold around him; smiling to himself, Din briefly closed his eyes and rested his cheek against her head, savoring the feeling of holding his wife close and the sounds of his son’s content coos from his pram. “Ready to go home now?”

(Y/N) pulled away and her smile nearly took Din’s breath away. “I’d love nothing more.”

After slipping his helmet and gloves back on, Din followed (Y/N), Grogu and R5-D4 out of the shop and waited for (Y/N) to finish locking up before offering her his hand, which she readily accepted. As he walked hand-in-hand with his wife and watched in amusement as their dutiful astromech kept blocking Grogu’s attempts to steer his pram towards the city’s many food stalls, he sent a silent word of thanks to the Maker that after a lifetime of pain and loneliness, the universe finally saw fit to bless him with an aliit of his own and the promise of their clan’s suum ca’nara on the horizon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mando’a Translations:

Puhoi daab, ner cyar’ika alor’ad-Slow down, my darling captain Ner atin beroya-My stubborn bounty hunter Alor’ad-Captain Uj’alayi-Uj Cake Mir-sheb-Smart-ass Ni kyr’tayl gar darasuum, ner cyar’ika riduur-I love you, my darling wife/husband Aliit-Family Suum ca’nara-The state of blissful rest and peace

A/N: I told you there'd be fluff! Thank you all so much for reading and commenting! I’ve created two Spotify playlists, one filled with of all my favorite music from the world of Star Wars and the other compiled with all the songs I listen to for inspiration while writing this series, so if you’re interested in checking them out the links are down below!

Star Wars Spotify Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2KuSKJhVOPPvxdJ9YHeo4M?si=2977ff31bf0c4bdd

Din Djarin/TCoB Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5HIv4pIIgtzRW3Nyv5x7ry?si=15e457550bd94966

Chapter Forty-Seven Taking Care of Business Masterlist

Tagging: @remmysbounty @sinon36 @seninjakitey @thatonedindjarinfan @ginger-swag-rapunzel @mostclevermiss @momc95 @welcometothepedroverse @sarahjkl82-blog @elinedjarin @ccomandercody @crowleysqueenofhell @goldielocks2004 @wondergal2001 @groovyqueer @impala1967666 @fluffy-canada-pancakes @icee228 @siimiasoi @uncle-eggy @amyg1509

#taking care of business #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin x f!reader #the mandalorian x f!reader #din djarin #the mandalorian #grogu #the child #baby yoda #greef karga #nevarro #naboo #star wars

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