#rip to his limbs and mental health

[nightingale-prompts]

Talking to Batboy

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"Do you want to talk?" Dick asked sitting at the end of the bed.

Danny had been spared from the memories of that night but it had done nothing for his mental health. He was handling the loss of his wings well at least. Although losing a limb was still not a good feeling.

But that isn't the problem. None of this is the problem.

The problem was…

"Why me?" Danny asked tucking his legs to his chest.

"What?" Dick asked confused.

"What made me so special? Was it just my wings?" Danny narrowed his eyes.

"I...don't know. I just wanted-"

"That's not an answer! It was the wings, wasn't y You don't care about me! Of course, it was the wings!" Danny jumped off the bed and moved towards the door.

"Danny, is it so hard to believe that I wanted you because I cared?" Dick grabbed Danny's hand pulling him back.

"Yes! This city is full of poor unfortunate orphans. The only reason I was special was because of how I looked. But that's not real! That's not what I am." Danny shifted, and his real appearance began shifting across his body. "BUT YOU DON'T WANT TO SEE THE REAL ME!

Danny started to hyperventilate as he pulled back until he hit the wall. He slumped to the floor.

"I don't belong here. I should never have come here." Danny said to himself.

Dick keeled down and spoke gently.

"Your right you did stand out. I thought you were a lot like me. Optimistic and energetic despite the pain you were in. I didn't know what you were and I still don't understand. I wish you'd just tell me so I can understand. I want to help you."

Danny scoffed.

"You want to help me?" He laughed taking off his shirt and letting his glamour fall showing the scars he had.

The lightning scar that ripped through his arm and chest all the way to his eye. The burn marks and blast marks littered his body. The unmistakable dissection scar.

In that moment Dick knew that he hadn't seen himself in Danny. He had seen Jason. Sweet little Jason who has a light in the night. His little brother who he hadn't treasured enough until he was gone.

"Danny…you.." He was lost for words.

"You don't want me. Even my parents didn't want me. Honestly, you are all the same. You don't see me as what I am. Just a monster. Not human." Danny grumbled.

"That's not true Danny! Stop trying to put words in my mouth! I love you, is that so hard to believe?" Dick held Danny's shoulders as the teen pushed him back.

"Yes! Now get away!" Danny phased through Dick and flew away to escape. He couldn't handle this right now.

Wings or no wings he could still fly. That was comfort enough.

He flew as quickly as he could only to end up in Crime Alley again. As eerie as it was it gave him a place to collect his thoughts.

Unfortunately, he forgot it was home to the relevant Red Hood or Jason. His unwitting family member. That was no longer a secret especially when Jason recognized him as Phantom. At least he didn't tell everyone.

He didn't want them to know the truth. He didn't want to be an undead monster to them. He couldn't go through that again. He refused. He'd rather return to the realms before suffering that again.

When Jason came (probably sensing his presence) Danny felt overcome with emotions. He hugged Jason feeling a little less alone.

"Hey, Spooks. What are you doing out here?" Jason asked letting the boy hug him.

"I…picked a fight with Dick," Danny said embarrassed with how he acted…again.

"First time?" Jason laughed "Trust me as his kid you probably will do that plenty more times. I know I still do with my ol'man. But Dick isn't like Bats. He loves differently. Although they both care too much, Dick is good at communication. Just talk to him."

Jason seemed more jovial now. Less pained. Apparently, now that the Joker was dead and gone a weight was taken off him. That and the tainted ectoplasm being eaten by Danny.

"I don't think I can," Danny said, what he wanted to do was run away. He may have gotten too deep into this. Maybe returning was the best thing.

"Then you sure chose the worst possible guardian. He's gonna keep looking. He did not going to stop either. So sucking it up and facing him is the best possible route." Jason laughed as Danny sighed. "You can't keep running."

"I can try." Danny thought bitterly. He could just rip open a portal and disappear. No one would know.

"Red Hood. Danny." A third voice entered the conversation.

"Batman." Jason scowled.

"I was sent to look for Danny." He said simply. "He should be focused on healing."

"How'd you find me this fast?" Danny gripped rolling his eyes.

"I had a feeling. Come along, Danny. " Batman reached out to Danny.

Reluctantly Danny waved goodbye to Red Hood and took Bruce's hand.

Bruce didn't take Danny home immediately. Instead, they climbed one of the tallest buildings in Gotham. Danny stared up at the sky. The stars were blocked out by the light and smoke. He always hated that part of Gotham.

"Danny look down," Batman said urging Danny to sit with him.

Looking down the city shined. Each light is like a blazing star.

"Each light you see is a person. Despite how difficult life is here they still choose to live their lives." Batman said. "They don't know if they will be safe but they still strive for more."

"Do they really think that or do you just hope they do?" Danny barked clinically.

"Both. It wasn't always like this. The city used to be dead silent before I became Batman. Now they have the strength to fight back even in the night. That's why I do this. So Danny, why do you fight?"

Danny was never really asked this. He had a reason right? A good one.

"I wanted to protect my hometown." Yet he no longer needed to do that. He controlled the ghosts now. They lived a peaceful life now.

"Then we have something in common. I want to protect Gotham. But I'm not perfect. The world we live in is unpredictable with forces we don't understand. I thought if I understood something then I'd have no reason to fear. That suspension was leveled at you because I thought it would protect you and the world. However, I only made you afraid."Batman apologized. He wasn't very good at that but he was genuine.

"What if I'm a threat? What if I'm dangerous and hurt people? People you care about." Danny wanted to aim that barb at Bruce but it actually hit him. He was scared that one day he would become that other version of himself.

"Then I want to help you because I know you don't want to hurt people. Trust me there isn't a metahuman on earth that doesn't share your fear." Batman put a hand on Danny's shoulder.

It felt surprisingly warm against his cold skin.

"I want to talk to Nightwing. I think. I think I'm ready to talk." Danny was finally ready to tell him the truth. Even if it scared him to death.

[lostintransist]

Secrets Are For Grown Ups | Part 2

Shout out to the fabulous @xbirdiex for letting me hit them up in their DM's to beta for this. 😘

CW: Limb Loss, suicide mentioned in passing, thoughts of murder, Emotions™

What does one do when confronted with their unknown sins?

Follow them home of course.

Johnny had lost his left leg at knee due to a bomb going off at a job and Simon had been discharged after repeatedly failing mental health evals. They were both given pensions and discharged with honors. Roach and Gaz had been kept together when moved to a new team and Price had been ‘gifted’ a higher position by command that left him chained to a desk.

The only confirmation they had that your leaving had been somehow their fault was the face down picture on the table. Price had called them to check on you as you had a family emergency. You had been firmly ensconced in a hard airport seat when they reached your flat. If they shared a speaking look about the photo before Johnny slid it from it’s frame and folded into his pocket, they never discussed it.

The discharges were how they finally ended up together. Simon needed something, someone, to care for to keep from eating a bullet and Johnny fighting him tooth and nail to stay alive was the right project. The physical therapists loved seeing Johnny rolled in by Simon because they knew he wouldn’t fight them on exercises today. He would snarl at his “L.T.” and actually work. They had to be careful to not let him overwork himself lest he be unable to work at the next day’s appointment.

Their first kiss had been when Johnny had been fed up with Simon’s sass about physical therapy. He had only been legless for a month and barely started trying to relearn how to balance.

Simon carried him from the car to their shared flat.

“I’m not going back.”

“Mmm, what a surprise it will be when I drag your ass to PT tomorrow then.”

Being carried bridal style rankled somewhere deep in Johnny. He wanted to take a bite of out Simon’s neck and keep ripping but that would have left him stranded in the hall with a dead body and only one working foot.

The look Simon sent him, one of cool acknowledgment and smugness had Johnny gripping both halves of Simon’s face and planting a kiss on him.

That would show the bastard.

Showed him something alright. All Simon could see the remaining few steps to the flat was the subtle shift in Johnny’s gym shorts and rising heat in his cheeks. Simon hadn’t said anything about it. Dinner had been a simple soup. Night fell. When Simon helped Johnny to bed that night, he inserted himself next to the man.

Johnny didn’t question it. Frankly he was relieved. He had flirted for years in front of the man he didn’t think he would ever catch. The press of his dry lips and light fingers had ignited the combustible fumes that swirled between them. Those fumes choked out any hope of anything healthy with anyone else.

When Johnny had ‘graduated’ from therapy and could walk with almost no limp Simon invited Johnny to move with him. They found a medium sized city in a place neither of them had been to but could reach several national parks and an airport relatively quickly. Housing costs were rising but they found an older neighborhood with a good amount of trees in the yards and a little space in the back to grow plants. They could see the mountains when they stood on the second story porch.

The previous owner had mentioned that the school pick-up and drop off point happened at their house for the junior high and the elementary schools. Kids would wait on the corner of their yard away from the cars. That is why the two owners prior had installed the stone benches that sat so close to the sidewalk. Simon had planned on taking them out until he heard that piece of information.

One day, during mid-spring where the mornings were chilled enough to need a jacket but the afternoons would leave you sweating, Johnny saw something that gave him pause. He was in the process of moving bags of clothes into the car to drop off at the shelter when the bus delivered a load of kids. He waved with the bus driver and slammed the trunk of the crossover.

The squeal particular to children had Johnny snapping his back to a pair of children who walked past his parked car.

“Don’t do that Mac!”

A glare he had only ever seen on Simon’s face painted itself across the face of a child who couldn’t be any older than seven. Johnny felt the bottom drop out of his stomach and fall into his ass.

“Don’t yell at me stupid!”

“Mom says you can’t call me stupid! Stupid!”

Stepping into the sidewalk Johnny watches the the children, one with long hair and the other short, bicker until they reached a house five doors up and disappeared behind the front door.

Stumbling into the garage Johnny attempts to call for Simon. All that escapes is a croak. After a hard shake of his head and clearing his throat it works.

“Simon!”

The shout must have had an edge of panic because Simon appears with a hand gun pointed at the floor and the his Ghost eyes staring out. Upon seeing Johnny, unharmed and alarmed Simon tucked his work face and his gun away.

“What happened? Why are you sweating? Are you sick?”

Johnny swatted away that hands that reached for his face.

“I saw a fecking child with your face Si. Kid got off the bus and was arguing with his sister. I need you to come with me.”

Simon blinked at his beloved a few times. The fuck did he say?

“Why would a child in the states have my face? You know it is possible for unrelated people to look alike right? It’s important to me that you know that.”

“Listen to me Simon!” Johnny stumbled back, prosthetic catching funny against the concrete floor. “I, never, in all my life have seen a glare that looks exactly like yours. But this kid when yelling at his sister had one of your meanest glares. I could see him in you still after he smiled. I am asking you to come with me and knock on a door to introduce ourselves to the neighbors and find out what the hell is going on.”

Simon hadn’t seen Johnny this riled up in a long time. He searched his husbands face, noting the heaving of his chest and the flex of his fingers as he fought them from curling into fists.

“Okay,” he said gently as if he were speaking to a spooked horse, “let’s go meet the neighbors.”

That is how the found themselves at your door. The waiting after the harsh knock sounded into the space beyond the frame rattled something loose in Simon. Could he have a kid? He had been no prude before settling down with Johnny but he couldn’t remember more than a few women he ever fucked raw. Everyone of them had been on birth control, at least they said they were.

Johnny crossed his arms, drawing Simon’s gaze. They were both freaked out, concerned.

When the door opens there is you. A little older, a little more solid than when you had fled England, a few new piercings, but it’s still you. Simon glances to the wall visible behind you catching sight of two children in photos who wouldn’t look out of place on the walls of his and Johnny’s home. His gaze snaps back to you as you blanch and slam the door shut.

The deadbolt slamming into place solidifies in him the answer that there is something going on here and it absolutely involves them.

Before Johnny can pound his fist into the door to demand answers Simon catches it. Placing a gentle kiss along his knuckles he coaxes him from the door.

“She won’t answer the door. You know she won’t. Let’s all take the evening and try and come back tomorrow while the kids are at school.”

“She owes us answers, Si,” Johnny’s eyes flashed as he snarled.

Simon pulled him down one more step. Once Johnny started moving they walked home, hand in hand.

“She does owe us answers, but we know where she is now and can see about getting them. Right now I suggest we recoup and see what we can find. One of the kids in the photos looked like you Johnny.”

Johnny vibrates with tension until he sees the wisdom in coming at this from another angle. His shoulders drop from his ears as tears prick at his eyes.

“Why wouldn’t she tell us Si?”

Mulling over the answer they complete the walk home.

“Why would she Johnny? You know how we are.”

That sobering statement colored the remainder of the evening. It is late when they decide to call their former captain.

Secrets Masterlist | Masterlist

Tags:

@beloveds-embrace @cherrycosmos392 @mxtallymarks @love-kha1

@love-kha1 @bdbdhshhs @persephone-kore-law @vmaxis @splaterparty0-0 @momowhoo

@talia-the-gemini @redkarmakai

[karlachismylife]

Wrote the intro the day I started this work and decided to leave it since it reflects the shitstorm in my head quite well, eh.

Okay Idk what it is with me today (I actually do know, I'm having a bad fucking night as a consequence of my own actions but I prefer not to think about it), but I just thought about task force 141 and reader that has such a bad withdrawal after their orgasm that they actually cry and not in a fun way (cue my lack of understanding how crying in bed can ever be fun, but i'm not here to kinkshame)

CW: NSFW (so minors and ageless blogs DNI, I'll block you), but there's barely any sex, hurt/comfort, body image issues, low self-esteem, chubby/fat!reader, written with afab!reader in mind (but most parts can be read as gn), potential mental health issues (?), thoughts of selfloathing and selfharm, smoking mentioned once at the end. Very self-indulgent and I'm definitely unwell, so yeah. It's also more focused on reader's inner shitstorm than the guys in many places so idk if this even really is enjoyable...

Starts as a single piece, then splits into individual blurbs/drabbles/oneshots + some polyamory cuz I'm spoiling myself today having done nothing to deserve it, lol.

They vary in size and tone since I've been writing them through several ups and downs in my own mental state, so please don't take this as a sign of which characher/combo is my favourite. I'm greedy, I like everything.

This is unfair.

Like, you just had wonderful sex, probably came more than once in a short period of time, ears stuffed with cotton, limbs weak, head spinning... and it keeps spinning, sweet tingling on the skin turning into nasty rushes of cold, muscles too tense, but it's not a cramp.

You feel like shit, every possible hormonal and neuromediator crash downing on you, a hollow, depressing weight in your chest instead of a sweet afterglow. Sweat and cum feel disgusting on you skin, your skin feels disgusting, strangling, your whole body seems revolting, too heavy, too sluggish. A sticky, suffocating heatwave on your nape, but your chest is cold and covered in goosebumps, a feverish feeling clogging every pore. Nausea wrenches into your stomach and stops just before you can relievingly barf and get rid of this parasite inside.

You simply want to dig your nails into your own shoulders instead of his and rip the skin and meat off, free yourself from this burden (you're the burden). Each second as he stays blissfully unaware, holding you tightly with his big hands and panting into the crook of your neck, drags on like a hundred hours of pure torture - the torture of being yourself.

Throwing up feels like an appropriate reaction to how unappealing and ugly you feel.

You're spiraling. You couldn't fucking keep your own messed up emotional outburst - completely unreasonable and unprovoked, by the way - to yourself, and now it's going to be noticed. You'll ruin someone else's fun. Make it all about yourself when you've already been nothing but doted on, cared and provided for. Fucked so good that your body is still clenching around that magnificent cock deep inside you.

And you're fucking crying, like an ungrateful, egotistical brat. Never having enough, unable to provide something as simple as a hole to make someone else happy without fucking it up.

Ghost notices immediately. There's nothing that can escape this man, and definitely not his love's distress. He's not reacting immediately for a sole reason: he's frozen in fear, horrified that he made you cry. How - he's not sure, he always takes great care to stay within limits, never allows himself to push you further than you both agree on. But what if he slipped up? What if he got carried away? Did he cause pain? Did he say something hurtful in the heat of the moment?

"Fuck. Hey, hey, lovie... look at me... wha's wrong? Did I... did I hurt ya?" Good thing you're hiding your face and your red eyes so desperately that you can't see how distressed and downright terrified Simon looks, lost at the sight of your tears. When you shake your head and attempt to push him away to hide your pathetic sobbing, he somewhat calms down and brings his big calloused hands to cradle your face, gently prying your own palms away and holding your puffy cheeks tenderly. His thumbs brush your tears away as he holds you, holds you through the growing rage fit of touch aversion, through the shudders and actual wailing. At some point he moves his palm to cover your eyes, a dry, dark blinder to keep the world around you shut out, help you concentrate on his voice.

He's not talking, just humming, a familiar, deep, grumbling noise that soothes all the flashes of anger, hate and disgust in your brain. You're tired now, like you're always are after such an intense outburst, and as you go limp, he finally pulls away, only to pick you up - barely a strain, a direct spit in the face of your own insecurity - and bring you to the bathroom. A warm shower evens your distorted body temperature out, his hands running over your body and cleaning all the stickiness away bring back peace with your own skin. After a quick rinse Simon holds you, your head cradled against his chest, until you make a weak attempt to help him wash too - he lets you trace his body, that perfection you adore with all its old wounds, sores and scars, for a bit, and then finishes himelf.

Gives you fresh cotton underwear and his hige T-shirt, still holding you around your shoulders and keeping the comfortable pressure even while he changes the bedsheets, kissing your temple as you find it in yourself to help.

It's only after you settle on top of him, nice, clean comforter protecting your back against the world, head on his chest right next to his heart beating in a steady rythm, he finally breaks silence.

"Need anything else, lovie?" Just like that. No prying, no occusations, nothing that would put you on the spot. You can ask him to bring you the moon soaked in unicorn's milk, and he'll just nod, kiss your hand and start dressing up, already calling Johnny to ask where the fuck did Scots hide their last horned horse and if he happens to know where they enlist astronauts.

"Just you."

His grip on the small of your back tightens and you feel his uneven, scarred lips graze the top of your head.

"Ya've got me. Always."

Soap is running hot like a furnace, still shivering and panting after what he considers the best sex he has ever had (every time with you is). He lifts his face, buried into the crease of your neck previously, and starts peppering you with slightly sloppy, grateful kisses - your neck, your jaw, your lips, your...

When he tastes your tears and opens his unbelievably blue eyes to see your expression contorted in disgust, he panics. Pulls away immediately, hands both itching to grab you and shake a reason for that look on your face out of you and too scared to touch you in case this hatred is directed at him.

"Whit's wrong, leannan? Are ye a'right? Ye didnae lik' it? Shite, lass, Ah'm so sorry, Ah didnae mean tae-" He stops yapping only when he notices the way your lips tremble as you try to plead with him, sobbing that it's not his fault.

"'M sorry, I ruined it... I'm so sorry, sushine, I just... fuck I wish I wasn't so bloody sick in the head and ugly..." Speaking out loud only worsens your anger, directed solely at yourself, and you try to wipe your eyes furiously. As the tears keep rolling, your frustration only grows - maybe if you yanked your own hair really good or slapped the disgusting pudgy cheek you've despised ever since chidhood as everyone kept pointing out how big they were...

"Ye didnae just call the love of mah fucking life ugly." Johnny's voice is a mix of a harsh order to cut your bullshit and pure disbelief. His huge paws wrap themselves around your wrists, stopping you both from harming yourself and covering your face. You're forced to look at him, and as you do, you see his handsome face flushed with a passionate anger at the intrusive thoughts in your head, heavy frown in his thick eyebrows and the sea in his eyes dark and deep enough to drown a whole fleet. You'd be scared if it wasn't obvious how hurt he is underneath it all - like a kid whose favourite plushie just got mocked by his classmates.

"It's just a toy," adults would say, and they would be bloody wrong.

"Tis not a toy, tis mah friend."

You're his friend. His love. His heart, his soul, his everything - he whispers that frantically, kissing you over and over, hot palms running over your body, wiping the cold, the stickiness, the goosebumps away. You don't have time to think, to spiral again, you're drowning in that exact sea that's spilling from his eyes, staring at you with pure devotion - a sea of affection, admiration, love, love, love.

Johnny nuzzles up to you like an animal seeking comfort, hides into your chest, right after he kisses your sweaty double chin, breathes in deeply, lets go of your soft shoulders only to grab two handfuls of your tummy, kneading it, warming up the stale blood, squeezing your big thighs between his and getting lost in the frenzy - he honestly doesn't even remember already that he was comforting you, he's fully in the worshipping mode, leaving you no chance to dip even a single toe into the self-conscious thoughts again.

You'll just have to stay there, every single tear lapped up from your face, and accept every greedy touch and word of a man utterly in love with you. Even the messed up parts.

Gaz keeps his cool despite how distraught even the thought of your sadness makes him. First of all he moves aside to give you space, makes sure you're not hurt, asking in his usual kind - unbelievably kind, so much that you burst into tears again, feeling undeserving of such unapologetically soft treatement, tone.

"Shh, shush, gorgeous, you're not hurt, are you? It's okay, c'mere, jus-st like tha', very good, love," praises keep spilling from his tender lips as he carefully helps you sit up, simply dragging you away from the damp from sweat and everything else spot on the sheets. He ends up balancing half his bare ass off the edge of the bed, but it doesn't bother him in the slightest as he feels you already coming back from that hopeless place as soon as your body gets stuck between clean, dry and a bit cool sheet and Kyle's firm lean body of a litearal god - or a prince, at least.

His deft fingers are already at work, massaging your scalp, chasing the tension away, but the second he feels you grow uncomfortable with the repetitive movement, he stops and retreats to simply holding you in a steady, reliant embrace. You know he's good with his words, that's how he got you, swept off your feet completely and made you swoon with sweet compliments, hilarious snark and smart talk.

You just don't expect him to do it all over again in the face of your burdened mind crumbling in the paradise.

"Talk to me, angel. Let me inside that pretty head, hm?"

It takes this sweettalker just a couple of words to coax whatever that ugly, slimy knot in your throat is, out. You sob, retelling Kyle every single thought that has been stuck in that coagulated mess in your head, spill the bile that has been burning your retching throat, out in the open, for him to see the disgusting ugliness of your insides - matching your outside.

Somehow throughout your choking trade his soft, careful hand never leaves your back, rubbing circles of different radius and intensity into your skin to keep the aggression at monotonous touch at bay.

"Must've been some terrible person to overbear your spirit and plant all those lies in your mind, angel." You don't catch the meaning of his words at first, glancing at him confused and whoozy after you exploded with self-deprication. Those dark, calm eyes look at you no different than before: quiet, calm reverence and determination. A thread of spider's silk, thin as a hair, but stronger than steel, his love does not waver. Were you in the right state to actually pay attention, you would've seen it only grow.

"Well, beautiful, this isn't how I planned to start writing poetry, but since you insisted... maybe I can think of a diss track about you."

"A diss track?.." Poor you, so upset that you can't catch onto the mischievous glint in his eyes and that silly smooth sarcasm slipping into his words. You're actually half a step away from believing he would diss you, destroying that already non-existent self-esteem once and for all.

"Yup. Gotta diss-tract you from all that bullshit in your head for good. Unless you'd rather me fuck it out of you instead?"

You cannot not smile at that, even if it's a weak, timid smile. Kyle's face still lights up as if he sees an actual angel, bringing the good grace or whatever.

"There ya go. First step of the mission? Success. Permission to continue? I repeat, permission to continue?"

"You spend too much time with Simon. Permission granted..."

Price undrstands what's going on before he even hears your first sob, the tension in your body and the change in your breath telling him all he needs to know. There's enough experience in this man for the both of you, he has learnt to read people and immediately accomodate them in a way that serves a common goal so long ago that it's a secong nature already.

Your comfort is that common goal.

With a grunt, he rolls you over, planting you firmly on top of his warm, burly body. Untucking your head from his hairy chest, he holds your face and does not let you concentrate on anything but his stern, focued gaze under those bushy eyebrows - but there's still that undeniable tenderness in his eyes that's always there whenever John looks at you.

His voice sounds usual too: a calm, commanding, but not harsh tone, not a loud bark any of his subordinates would hear, yet still an order. "Look at me, darling. Tha's right, look at me, look at your John. You shut whatever's going through that troubled mind of yours out and let me take care of the rest, a'right? Can you do that for me, darling? I know you can. I'll do all the thinking for ya, eh?"

Giving control over to him feels natural at any other moment, but right now you're too deep in the trenches of the war with your own mind, hissing at you with pure disgust for being so selfish. Really, now? Had to use this sweet, caring man for your own needs, and now you're dumping all your perverted, fucked up baggage on him too?

"Nuh-huh, ya're still thinking. Told ya to cut if off. You know that's not you thinking right now, dontcha? You're a smart one, love, ya know shit like this happens. And when shit happens, who are you going to to deal with it, huh?" His deep voice rumbles in his chest, seeps into your clogged ears, fills your skull with the unyielding determination and leaves no room for your own dark thoughts.

When you hesitate to answer, John slides his rough palms over your back, tracing your soft rolls and landing onto the pudge of your hips, squeezing lightly to remind you who's in charge and what your task is. "Who is there for ya to deal with shit that happens, hm, darling? Need ya to tell me."

You want to hide, escape his demand for an answer, but he keeps you firmly in his embrace, a gaze of steel unmoving from you. It almost makes you tear up again, almost feels mean of him to put you on the spot, when all you want to do is curl up in a dark corner and stay there for all eternity. But the love you have for this man overpowers even the seething hatred you bear for yourself, so you give up and murmur meekly: "You..."

"Tha's right, darling, it's your John. I'm here to deal with everything that bothers ya. Everything, ya hear? Tha's me job. Your job is to stay wit' me 'n' not overthink, eh? Especially not when it's just hormons making ya feel bad." You have nothing else left to do, other than sniffle into his chest and melt under a warm kiss he plants on your crown. "How about a cuppa, eh, darling? And something just as sweet as ya for a bite. Ya'll feel better in no time, I promise."

Ghost and Soap cancel each other's panicking out. As soon as both you and Simon slip out of the sweet afterglow, falling backwards each into your own pit of self-doubt and spiraling, Johnny starts babbling, terrified at the thought of both his beloved people feeling worse after being with him. His slurred, panting words and frantic kisses help Simon shake of his own horror - in return, he squeezes Johnny's shoulder to slow the worried mutt down and redirect his energy into helping you. Soap tenses up under the firm touch of his Lieutenant, then relaxes again, leaning into him for a moment to collect himself - they charge from each other, mere seconds of feeding off each other's energies in the middle of a time-limited mission with the highest stakes: your well-being.

They exchange glances, no words needed after the way their work together almost makes them mindreaders to each other, and turn back to you as you lay there, face painfully contorted in an attempt to keep the black foamy bile you feel rising in your throat from spilling. Slow, sticky, angry tears run down your flabby cheeks, and with each millimetre they go, your scalding wish to gouge your eyes out with your bare hands grows, just to punish yourself for being ungrateful after two perfect men spent so much of their time making you feel good.

"Dinnae cry, bonnie. Ye're a'right, ye're 'ere, wit' us. Right, LT? We're nae gonnae let ye marinate in whitevur got ye so upset." The pressure from inside your body that threatened to burst you open into a messy explosion of bile and rot, gets evened out from outside by Johnny's tight hug. He squeezes you up to the painful point, cradling against his broad chest, holding the fort while Simon leaves the bed, but not without kissing both your palms and holding them against his lips until he feels the cold leave your fingertips.

"Oi, Johnny. Help lovie get in 'ere," he calls out several minutes later out of the bathroom. Soap, who has been holding you and allowing you to sob against his heart this whole time, stroking your sweaty hair and murmuring every word of love he knows, scoops you up immediately. He pads over with you in his arms to where a warm bath is already filled thanks to Simon, and when you react to the temperature with another wave of tears, they both reach out to the tap simultaneously.

"Is tha' a'right, bonnie?" You make a strangled noise as Johnny finally sets you down into much cooler now water. It soothes you, makes you feel instantly cleaner, smaller, lighter. Breathing gets easier, that swollen blob of anger and disgust shrinking down in your chest and allowing you to inhale bathroom's damp air normally. You open your mouth to apologize and get cut off before even a single syllable leaves your mouth.

"Don't," Simon's voice sounds gruff, but even his murky reflection in the rippling water looks genuinely soft towards you. They're both perched on the cold bath edge, naked and seemingly not caring about that at all. "Jus' let us take care of you, yeah, love? Tha's what we're here for. Tha's what we want to do."

"Well, actually, there's one more thing," Johnny interjects, causing you to finally lift your sullenly lowered head and look at him, Simon's big palm using this moment of distraction to press onto your back in silent support. "Can Ah make ye a foam beard? Please, bonnie? Ye jus' 'ave the prettiest sweetest cheeks fur tha'."

Soap and Gaz feel like their world is sinking into a whirlwind of stormy clouds, the kind that sucks all light out of sky in mere seconds and can't be cut through even by blinding flashes of lightnings. There is no sun in their skies if you're not smiling, and the sound of your muffled sniffles hits their eardrums harder than thunder or explosions. The frowns distorting their faces only make you more self-aware of the fact that you ruined things between you - the initial hysteria starts rapidly flowing into complete shutdown, threatening to turn you into an emotionless shell for unknown period of time, when several warm, big hands intervene and cut the depressing trajectory down at its root.

"Damn, we did a shit job fucking all your thoughts out, didn't we, angel?" Kyle's joke sounds soft, teasing, but empathetic, ready to be met with sobs or silence instead of the usual laughter that flashes your teeth at him and makes his own smile grow brighter.

"Aye, we did. If anythin', Ah think we put more thoughts intae 'ere instead," Johnny scratches his head dramatically, and then you feel his big, hot palm on you sweaty forehead, as if he's trying to get a feel of the thoughts inside your skull. It doesn't linger there for long, though, rough fidgety fingers digging into your hair and tugging at the roots. This makes the hot-and-cold collar around your nape unclench, uncouth and chaotic massage confidently pulling every ounce of anger out of your brain. From time to time his calloused palm slips lower, squeezing your scruff, wiping the cool sweat away and taking control over what seems to have escaped your own.

"How does it feel to be the first person to get knocked up mentally, love? Having any cravings yet? Feeling your brainworms kick yet?" Dry cotton comforter suddenly covers your exposed to be looked at with disdain body, and before you can choke out a protest and something about you being sweaty and sticky and disgusting, Kyle grips your shoulders firmly, rubbing up and down as he slowly helps you sit up a bit.

"Ye eejit, how dae ye think thay can kick? They're brainworms, thay dinnae hae any legs!" The sheer passion in Johnny's heated counterarguement does the impossible - makes the corners of your deeply upset mouth twitch against all the weight the sadness put on them. Your knights in shining (from all the sweat your lovemaking covered them with) armor of their own warm skin seem to not notice the slightest twitch of your lips - there's no excessive attention drawn to you, none of them puts you on the spot. Their touch isn't going anywhere, but it almost seems mindless, simply their need to have something soft and pleasant to squeeze in their restless hands. "'N' wasnae Mary th' first lassie tae get up th' duff through th' heid?"

"That wasn't mentally, that was spiritually, read your books, Soap," scoffs Kyle, as if it was the most obvious thing, and ducks just in time to avoid a pillow thrown at him with sniper's precision.

"Oi, ye sayin' Ah cannae read now?!" Whatever snarky retort Kyle was ready to shoot, gets wiped out as Johnny tackles him, barely avoiding pushing all three of you off the bed. Their scuffle consists of chokeholds and sneaky kisses, legs getting caught in the sheets and somehow tangling you into the mess too.

Until you laugh, finding yourself squished into Johnny's hairy chest with Kyle in a gently headlock somewhere under your arm.

"Hey, hey, careful, mate, our lovie's expecting, we can't just throw 'em around!" However obvious that deflection is, Johnny reacts as if you were actually with child and grabs your face, boring his eyes into yours, slowly widening his two blue lochs in pretend horror.

"Och naw! Ah think we lost 'em, Ah cannae see nothin' there now!" Flushed after the playfight, you avert your gaze, still a trace of self-consciousness about yout outburst somewhere deep inside, but none of the "brainworms" that clogged your insides in sight indeed. Johnny's little drama earns him a soft nip on his thumb from you, and he smiles at you, clearly satisfied with the effect their little scheme had.

"Aw, damn, and here I was, ready to hear the pitter-patter of 'em little feet," Kyle's warm lips somehow find their way to kiss your temple, eliciting another shy giggle.

A pillow crashes onto both of you with the force of a small bombshell.

"THAY DINNAE HAE FEET, GARRICK, THAY'RE WORMS!"

Price and Gaz fall into their usual ways seamlessly, responsibilities and tasks split between the two seemingly without even any verbal communication. Clearing out the space around you with the same quick efficiency they clear out enemies with, they prop you up on some pillows, assess your condition in case they got carried away and hurt you, and finally settle on both sides of you, warm hands on your knees squeezing softly.

"Are ya gonna talk to us now, lovie? Or will we have to use interrogation tactics to learn what made our love so upset?" John's voice bears no trace of threat, but it still makes you cower and try to take up even less space that your curled up body already has, which earns you a sigh from the Captain. "I see. Take over from here, Sergeant. I expect results once I return."

The matress sighs with relief a Price's weight leaves it, bare feet padding a few steps before he reaches his slippers and leaves the room. The pit that the sound of your bedroom's door closing opens in your chest is crushing your ribcage with the iron fist of vacum. You can't blame John for not willing to deal with your bullshit, but the hearbreak only reenforces the choking smog in your head that's rasping in a hundred different voices that the only thing you deserve is pure repulsion.

Kyle's soft thumb pads wipe the tears teetering on the arrows of your lashes, and in a smooth movement you find your face cupped and pulled close to his shoulder. His smooth skin sticks to your wet cheek and you find yourself crying like a little kid, the unbearable pain of the revolting dark knots inside somehow replaced with surprisingly more bearable grief over what you consider an ending reltionship. Perhaps John leaving our bed finally shattered your heart, letting the ungodly pressure out and allowing it to beat - and bleed - again.

"We'd really like if ya talked to us, angel. Don't think Captain can stand there bare-ass naked much longer, might catch rheumatism at this point, he's not getting younger, you know..."

"I hope you know I can hear you perfecrly clear, Garrick." You stop mid-sniffle, eyes snapping to the closed door. You can finally see the shadow of a man standing just outside, and the air slowly feels with some flavour you can't distinguish through all the snot yet, but seem to like a lot...

"Good, so your hearing's still intact, sir. You're in good shape," Kyle's cheeky remark must've broken John's famous patience and restraint, because the bedroom door finally opens, and you see him there. With a tray with a whole bunch of tea mugs and little plates of treats balanced in his hands.

"Still not talking? Well, we'll try another method then, lovie. Sandwich for your thoughts, eh?"

His cheeks are round with a kind smile, confusing your tortured mind even further - Kyle uses your stupor to fetch John's big, slightly scratchy bathrobe, successfully wrapping you into a cocoon of grounding stimulation all over your feverish skin. With a huff and a grumble about staying butt-naked a bit longer, John puts a pleasantly warm mug into your hands and looks at you, arms crossed and tucked into his armpits now that he got rid of the tray.

Expecting an answer.

"'M sorry..." seems appropriate right up to the moment when a little finger-sandwich gets shoved into your mouth. The bread is soft, nice, salty ham and crunchy cucumber filling your senses and cracking a bit fat line of light right in the middle of the dense cloud in your thoughts.

"Try again, love," Kyle gives a hint and wipes a crumb off your lips, licking it off his thumb. "We don't need an apology, we just want to know what's troubling ya. John, tell 'em."

"Already did," grumbles Price in response and clears his throat, sitting back down on the creaking bed. "Food's working though. Eat up, darling, get your energy. Then we'll talk properly, a'right?"

You chew slowly, still stiff in your own body, but regaining control gradually. Yes. Then you'll talk.

Ghost and Price exchange a single glance over your from, choking on the self-destructive rage, and John shakes his head so slightly that one can barely notice, but it's clear enough to stop Simon from tumbling down the traumatic spiral staircase of his own. Grounded by his Captain's presence, he shrugs his broad shoulders, shaking off the creeping up feeling of his own monsterous nature, and rolls onto his back, pulling you out of the miserable wet ball of wrinkled sheets and onto his firm lap, sideways, his big palms resting comfortably around your hips; he's not squeezing or digging his fingers into the fat like he usually does, but it's a secure hug you can't really escape.

Exposed held too far away from his chest you could hide on, you shrink, rising your shoulders protectively and trying to cover up your soft belly, spilling over your pelvis in a shapless manner - that's when John's arms come from behind, catching yours and instead of pulling away forcefully, simply repeating your own safety cocoon, hiding your body from your distorted sight and keeping you warm.

"You're not thinking straight right now, darling," every phrase he murmurs gently, calmly, convincingly into your ear is accompanied by a little kiss, beard tickling and burning your already irritated by tears skin. "So good for us, so kind. Can you spare some of that kindness for yourself?"

Even though it doesn't sound like a rhethorical question, Simon cups your cheek and shushes you tenderly, pressing his thumb to your lips, allowing John to continue with his little speech aimed to dispel the storm coagulated in your chest.

"'Cos if not, it's a'right, love. We know it's hard, and ya're doing good already. Ya 'ave us, eh? To love ya, to cherish ya. No need to overthink, jus' let us hold you, a'right?"

He finally pushes you onto Simon's chest, his big heart stuttering with worry as you seek shelter among his many scars that paint a horrifying picture once you put all the fragments together.

"How'd you do that, sir?" Simon's voice sounds vulnerable - so much that it strikes through all the layers of your egocentric self-hatred and shifts you almost immeditely into a completely different mindset; one where you throw your whole self into loving your scarred and battle-worn men in such abundance that it's ought to compensate for all the unfairness they've gone through.

There's no need for it now, you realize a little too late: Price is there, keeping Simon away from the darkness. They're fine. Better than ever. It's a distraction, a trick, a play to make your bleeding heart stop the internal self-destruction and turn to healing.

A sly little switch you're not sure they were planning to flip, but it worked.

"Hm?" As if emerging from the depths of his thoughts in response to Simon's question, John caresses your cheek as gently as his rough thumb can and then smiles, maybe catching onto the change in your mood or simply remembering all the times he pulled Ghost out of the same gloom and darkness. "Jus' taking care of me own, Simon. Tha's what a Captain does, no? Now, love, how about a shower? I reckon we can squeeze in all together and papmer you really good, what do ya say, eh?"

Ghost and Gaz manage to keep their cool. Kyle's confident and gentle presence serves to reassure any doubts Simon has about hurting you, he shoots a single glance at his sergeant and recieves support immediately. Two pair of hands cradle you with all the tenderness two soldiers are capable of, which is always enough to drown you in fully. It's a tight hug, a hot mess of limbs, too much skin on skin contact that makes your brain flare with undirected rage, but as seconds trickle by and you're still trapped between two firm bodies, you have no choice but to slip into the exhaustion phase of your outburst.

It's not pleasant, nor could you say you feel calm; if anything, you just petrify, a permanent frown on your face and blindly staring forward glass eyes. You're tired, you'd still rather be anywhere but inside your own body that still feels like a useless deformed bag that should be gutted and emptied to lighten up, inner layer of your skin scrubbed with a knife to peel off the suffocating thickness of fat trapping this heated rage inside...

Instead, you get a kiss.

It's Kyle, soft, full lips touching your wet with tears cheekbone, then again - your temple, your cheek, the overheated spot behind your ear. They're light, soft kisses, too gentle to be playful or arousing. Calming. They do not demand anything in return - he allows you to stay in your inner world where you feel secure, even pauses to kiss Simon the same way right in front of your eyes. A silent demonstrationg of the love and reverence these pecks carry, Simon's hooded eyes fluttering shut as if his own compartmentalized demons get exorcised by Garrick's touch.

"Wanna talk about it, angel?" Kyle's voice rumbles at a nice, grounding, smooth timbre, and your still-too-slow mind struggles to grasp how is it possible that he's talking and you're still getting kisses - until you recognize the uneven texture of Simon's scarred lips, trailing along your skin tenderly. "Whenever you're ready, love. But we would love to know what's going through your head right now."

It feels strange to say it out lound when you're held and caressed like this, but their kisses and solid embrace cleared your windpipe enough of the mental gunk for you to be able to speak.

"I hate myself... 'M disgusting, and-" A displeased grumbling kiss from Simon interrupts you, and even Kyle pushes his huge shoulder to reprimand his own Lieutenant for the interference. Kisses his temple immediately to make amends, though, and turns back to you, prompting you to continue.

"Wot? Don't like when someone talks shit 'bout mine," grumbles Simon like a dog that got flicked on the nose for growling at welcome guests.

"Let 'em talk, mate, it's good to get things off your chest." At least their little bickering coaxes a tiniest hint of smile out of you, and Simon, noticing it immediately, stares back at Kyle with such pride, as if he just did something great.

The thing is, in the way his arms squeeze you a tad bit tighter, pressing into his firm body, you can read that for him - your smile is the greatest achievement.

"Don't tell me you prefer his silent treatement, angel, I'm trying to be the attentive boyfriend here, and for what?" Your smile grows a little braver. A little brighter. You would've kept talking if you could remember what it was that hurt so fucking much in your chest.

"Shower. Then a cuppa. Then we have the talk." No one dares to argue with the Ghost and his gruff commands. You feel the sheet sticking to your skin as he lifts you up, Kyle already sneaking off to prepare towels and clean clothes for you three. He'll stay with you and help you wash the remaints of the mind attack off. Simon will make fresh tea.

You're going to be alright.

Price and Soap take quite an intense approach the second they notice your distress. You feel Johnny's weight disappear from you after the first strangled sob that escapes you, and if you could open your eyes glued shut by the hot, messy tears, you would see John practically dragging the poor Sergeant away by his scruff. It's easy to suspect that Johnny couldn't contain himself and went too hard, too rough on you - with no malice, but pure passion that's spilling from his big, hot heart every time he gets to be close to you.

But it's not Johnny's fault, neither is it John's. It's all you, a useless, pathetic thing, good for nothing and holding two gorgeous men to yourself like a greedy glutton hoarding delicious food.

"Ah'm sorry, bonnie- ow, Ah got it, Ah got it, Ah'm not touchin'!"

"Did we hurt ya, love? Was Johnny boy too rough wit' ya? Wha's wrong?"

You feel big warm hands gliding over your skin, quick assessment of your state in search of potential harm caused. This immediate care only makes you feel worse, every cold sweaty patch of your disgusting hide shivering and twitching under Captain's careful touch. You struggle against your own spiraling anger, fight it with what's left of your exhausted resilience - and lose, curling up with another burst of tears, shoving the loving hands away and dusting the lingering warmth off your body.

After all, you do not deserve to be treated with such kindness after the fit you just threw.

"No, no, no, it's not his fault, it's not Johnny's... it's me, it's my fault, it's all my fault, I ruin everything, I'm- I'm disgusting!"

The silence that follows you blowing up on them is heavy. Just as bad as the knot in your chest.

"Johnny."

When you open your eyes to find a way out, run away, scatter and hide in the furthest corner of the apartment until everyone who tried caring for you leaves again, you're met with Johnny's bright blue eyes, glistening with unshed tears.

It's a shocking sight, pushing you out of the muffled misery into an alerted worry - his face is red with unexplainable pained anger, fists clenched as John holds him tightly by hunched shouders, seemingly trying to prevent a violent outburst.

"Ah wanntae ken names of th' bastarts who made ye feelin' tis wa'. Ah swear Ah will mak' thaim fuckin' choke oan thair ain tongues, Ah'll rip thair spines oot 'n' shove thaim up thair-" - "Enough, Johnny. Stand down. This won't solve anythin'. Ya calm down and help our lovie feel better, a'right?"

Still a bit shells-hocked, you stir on the bedsheets and push yourself up to sit upright, stretching your arms hesitantly to the men in a weak attempt to remedy whatever shitstorm you caused in their minds.

"Don't get mad, please," you whisper sheepishly, and the shy sound of your still choked voice seems to wash Johnny's explosive anger away better than the firm grip of his handler's (Price's) hands. With a look of a beaten dog, Johnny huffs loudly, cuddlng up to you and hiding his face in your lap. His heavy jaw sinks in the plush of your thighs, accomodated nicely with the softness of your body.

"'M nae mad at ye, leannan. Jus' dinnae say tha' again, a'right, bonnie? If ye need me tae prove ye-"

"No..." your hand finds it place in his damp mohawk and brushes through, while you glance at John. His eyes are shimmering with love and love only as he looks at you and Johnny, and you feel a wave of shyness - the good, giddy, warm kind - replacing the paralyzing shame. "I'm fine already. With you."

"Maybe we should 'ave a little chat 'bout it, love," John's hand meets yours on the sad mutt's head in your lap, intertwinig fingers with you through Johnny's soft hair. "When ya feel better. Jus' so we know what we're dealing with, eh?"

"Yeah. A bit later. Thank you."

All four of your men get frozen witnessing your reaction, struck with a horrifying sense of helplessness - it feels like the biggest failure among many unsuccessful missions, operations where lives were lost and enemies missed, to have you curling up and crying in misery between all the love they've been pouring onto you just mere seconds ago. As if everything they touch is bound to go up in flames, drown in blood and rot, be it on the outside or from the inside.

They're lost, and as always, they turn to the Captain, giving themselves up for him to direct, trusting that he knows better what use they can be of.

And, frankly, he does.

They're barely talking, but the commotion around you is decipherable even through the red mind fog and closed eyes - it honestly only makes you feel worse, unsafe, exposed, despite that simply being Soap, sent off to fill a bath ("Ye want it hot or a tad bit cool, bonnie?" - Silence. Your nails dig into your scalp, the soud of someone simply breathing, even more so talking to you, sending you into a new fit of rage. "Make it warm, Johnny, we'll adjust later."), and Simon, leaving for tea duty - silently, your favourite way to have it attentively observed in the first two weeks you've been together and memorized ever since.

It's Kyle whose voice, murmuring into your ear sweet, reassuring nothings as he keeps you caged in a tight embrace, your back pressed against his warm chest, forces you out of the highly irritable state. You have no choice between his short, chaste kisses on the crown of your overloaded head, and John's calloused hands massaging your calves, soft flesh dipping under the firm pressure.

"Ya jus' focus on fighting tha' storm off, a'right, darling? We'll take care of th' rest. It happens, we know it does, 's not your fault. Jus' a funny lil' thing your mind does, eh? Yeah, love, we know wha' it's like when your mind does funny things. Don't we, Kyle?"

"That we do." Maybe it's just your own depressive state rubbing off on them or distorting your perception, but Kyle's voice sounds almost solemn. You would turn to look into the smoky quartz of his eyes, but either he holds you too tight, or you have barely any strength left in your upset body - you simply can't.

Maybe it's alright. Maybe tonight they don't need you ripping your heart out to tend to their restless minds, and you can just allow them to take care of you.

Allow Kyle to carry you to the bathroom.

Allow John to stay there and help you wash yourself with a nice, scrubby loofah.

Allow Johnny to bring in his huge, baggy loungewear that doesn't hug your curves too snugly and allows you to simply forget what you were so angry about for a while.

Allow Simon to serve you perfect temperature tea in your favourite mug and keep you quiet company on the balcony, night air cooling your wet and clean now skin and hair further and blowing all thoughts out of your troubled head away.

As you share a cigarette with rich clove aftertaste, breathing ironically becomes easier. Behind your back the bedsheets are being changed, proper meal is being cooked, a good movie you won't be upset falling asleep to is being chosen.

"Simon." - "Hm." - "You sure you're okay with me being like that?" - "Standin' in the wind with your hair wet, tryin' to catch a cold?"

You grunt, not appreciating him taking the piss while you're tryig to be vulnerable, but allow him to pull the hood of Johnny's hoodie onto your head.

"No. I mean, fucked up in the head?"

You don't actually know what answer you expect. With an unreadable expression, Simon turns his head, looking through the glass door at the men crowded in the living room and waiting for you, and then stares back at you with a smirk, a permanent scowl carved into it by someone's cruel hand.

"Nah. Tha's how I like 'em."

He throws the cigarette butt away and chuckles, cupping the back of your head and pulling you inside, into the warmth of home.

"Oi, bonnie! C'mere, As saved ye a spot." There is no spot as you look at the two-story cuddle pile on the sofa and the blanket nest in front of it, unless of course... ah, yes, Johnny's patting his lap. "Ah promise Ah'll behave. Mostly."

And as his warmth envelops you through a big hug, his hands clenched humbly on your belly and behaving indeed, you feel stupidly happy.

Because you're enjoying touch again.

[trippinsorrows]

looking through your eyes + seventeen

authors note: this chapter covers the aftermath of solana's attempt in the previous chapter. please heed to content warnings in order to make an informed decision regarding reading this chapter.

i'm going to handle solana's experience in the hospital as realistically as i can, but there are creative liberties taken as well. and don't come for me for the ending either. :/

cw/tw: angst, discussion and coverage of the aftermath of a suicide attempt, mental health discussions.

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

masterlist

words: 15k

Roman has a long to-do list. He always does and always will. But, this is by far one of the last things he wants to do. 

He’s going on 24 hours of no sleep, which isn’t the first time he’s done as such, but it’s the first time he’s done as such and actually felt the impact of the sleep deprivation. And truth be told, deep down he knows the exhaustion that he feels is more mental than anything.

It’s the result of the toll that finding out Solana tried to kill herself has taken on him. 

Is taking on him.

But, he can’t deal with that shit right now. He can’t deal with it because he’s got his Wise Man, Rikishi, Solo, Jimmy and Jey all sitting around him, wearing various levels of confused expressions. Which only irritates Roman more because Rikishi and Paul are the only ones who should be confused. The twins have been with him dealing with all of the shit the past 24 hours. 

Solo too.

Rikishi is the first to speak, studying Roman. The Tribal Chief is more than sure he noticed the grimace on Roman’s face as he went to roll his shoulders, remembering yet again of the wound that probably won’t heal as quickly as predicted given the fact he’s done the complete opposite of ‘taking it easy.’

“You gonna tell us what happened or—”

“There was an assassination attempt on Solana’s life last night.” Roman’s sentence is matter-of-fact and to the point, nevermind the fact that his right hand forms into a fist at just saying as such. 

Rikishi and Paul share shocked expressions, Roman’s older cousin being the one to ask, “is she—”

“Bullet hit me instead. Didn’t lodge. I’ll be fine.” Roman only adds that last part because of the horrified look on Paul’s face, already knowing his Wise Man will bombard him with questions about his injury. “Xavier Miller and his boy were behind the attempt. I’m handling them now.” 

“But sir, why would Miller want his own daughter dead?”

Roman closes his eyes and rolls his neck, working to settle his rising temper. He hates talking about this shit. It only spikes his eagerness to get his hands on Miller and rip him apart limb by limb. “Because she didn’t go along with his plan.”

Rikishi speaks up again. “Plan?”

Roman’s jaw clenches. “He wanted her to kill me.” 

The rest of the men look equally shocked, Paul gasping loudly, asking, “she’s a traitor?”

If looks could kill, Paul would be six feet under. Roman has to mentally restrain from acting out on his suddenly murderous urges. “She’s my wife.”

Rikishi, however, seemingly tosses his longtime friend a lifeline, trying to reason with his younger cousin. “Uce, that doesn’t mean she can’t be both—”

“What I’m hearing….” Solo surprises the men around the table as he sits forward. “—is that she can’t be trusted.”

Roman isn’t sure just how much of his anger and rage at the accusations being slung against Solana is showing, his Solana, but it must be enough for the twins, of all people, to try and de-escalate.

“Come on now, this is Soso we talking about.” Jimmy is the first to kick off peacemaking. He looks at his father, “pops, you was there when we first met her. She was nervous as shit. Ain’t nothing about that girl dangerous.”

Jey chimes in, handling Solo. “And you of all people should definitely know that’s not Solana. She would never hurt nobody, let alone kill nobody.”

Solo, however, simply scoffs. “Like she ain’t hurt her brother?”

“What was she supposed to do? Let him beat her?” Jimmy is the one to snap, shouting back with a suck of his teeth, “man, that bitch deserved it!”

Rikishi jumps in, defending his younger son. “I think what Solo is trying to say is that it proves she is, in fact, capable of hurting someone if she wanted to.”

“Why would she want to hurt Roman? That don’t even make no—”

“Enough!” Roman’s fist slams down on the table. “The next person to say one more negative thing about my wife is getting a bullet in their fucking skull.” There’s a blanket of silence, all of the men knowing that Roman would absolutely carry through on this threat. A promise, really. 

Roman swallows, both from anger and something else he can’t pinpoint. “Solana tried to kill herself last night. What in the fuck about that presents a danger?” He doesn’t care enough to observe the reactions of that news. Doesn’t give a fuck. “The only person she’s a danger to is herself.”

Paul is the brave soul, or perhaps just stupidly and naively asking, “is she—okay?” 

“I said tried, didn’t I?” Roman snaps, forcing the pudgy man to recoil back in his seat. Roman clenches his jaw yet again, directing his statement to the next older man. “Rikishi.” He runs a hand over his face. “Meet with the Elders. Tell them about the assassination attempt. That it was Miller. Nothing about the plan. And leave it at that.”

Rikishi removes his glasses, sitting up at the table. “Roman, the Elders should know—” 

“The Elders know what I want them to know, and I want them to know that someone tried to kill my wife, and I’m handling it. That’s it.” Incapable of dealing with any more of this shit, Roman stands up from the chair, turning his back on the rest of his family. “Wise Man, let’s go.”

The obese man also shoots up from the chair, nearly tripping over his feet as he wordlessly follows Roman out of the room. 

Left alone is just Rikishi and his sons, the patriarch asking, “she tried to kill herself?”

Jimmy and Jey wear similar frowns, recalling the horrific truth they learned about their ‘Soso’ just hours prior. Jimmy shuts his eyes, unable to push away the memory of a hysterical Naomi throwing herself into his chest at the memory of finding Solana unconscious. 

“It’s….it’s a long story,” Jey answers in a low voice, wanting to be respectful. Aware or not, Solana’s story is hers to tell and hers only. 

Truthfully, he’s slightly surprised Roman even disclosed that part of the past 24 hours. 

“Yeah, there’s a lot of the story that Roman left out,” Solo suddenly finds his voice again, sharing directly to his father and brothers. “Like the fact that Roman took that bullet for her.”

“What?” Riksihi asks, shock stamped all over his voice. 

“I was right there. I saw the whole thing. He pushed her out the way.”

Jimmy shrugs. “He protected his wife. What’s wrong with that? We all would have done the same.”

Jey nods in agreement. Rikishi looks torn. 

Solo continues, pointing out. “But, Roman ain’t like us. He’s the Tribal Chief. He needs to act like it.”

“Careful, son,” Rikishi cautions, seemingly breaking from his conflicted state. “Your Uce sits at the head of the table for a reason. His ways may be unorthodox at times, but his reign won’t be questioned. We won’t disrespect him.”

Solo scoffs. “But you’ll disrespect the other Elders by lying for him?”

Jey jumps in, chiding, “man, what’s up with you tonight?”

Solo scoffs, pointing to himself. “Me? I’m not the one whose judgment is clouded. We all know if this was one of us and the roles were reversed with our wives, Roman would want them executed. He’s not thinking straight.” Solo looks around the room, noticing there’s a brief second of silence. “Ya’ll see it too. I’m just the only one who’s willing to say it. Roman is losing focus—”

“That’s enough, Solo.” Rikishi raises his voice, firmer, that of a father. “You’re out of line, son.” 

Solo looks around the room, halfway waiting for his older brothers to jump to his defense, to agree with what they have to know is the truth. But, when that doesn’t happen, he also shoots up from the table, rocking it in the process, leaving the room without another word.

Once gone, Jimmy motions with his thumb. “Man, he is tripping.” He shakes his head, asking his father, “you want us to talk to him?”

“No.” Rikishi answers almost immediately, sighing heavily, running his hand over his face. “I’ll do it….you all just….watch Roman.” He stands up, as Jey mutters something about having the hard job. “And sons….this conversation doesn’t leave this room, understood?” Jimmy and Jey look slightly confused and taken back, Rikishi explaining, “I know you’re both closer with Roman. But, he’s just your cousin. Solo is your brother. He’s definitely tripping, but he’s still your family too, and there’s nothing more important than brotherhood, alright?”

________

Roman awakens with a heavy sigh that’s followed by his eyes closing. 

His sleep has been shit the past few days, and it’s been solely because his bed is cold and empty on the other side. Because he’s sleeping alone, something he once cherished but now can barely tolerate. He didn’t realize just how much he enjoyed Solana’s soft body pressed up against him, the satisfaction he felt waking up to her every morning.

Now, he just awakens to silence or the sound of Dulce whimpering or barking. 

Dulce’s whimpers on the side of the bed remind him of the fact that she’s still sleeping in his room. In their room. On Solana’s side.

Her empty side.

Moving the blankets off, Roman swings his big body over the side of the bed and walks over to motion for her to follow him. “Come on.”

He knows she has to empty her bladder, but he’s grateful for a reason to leave the space that reeks of Solana, a constant reminder of her absence. 

It’s….an experience, to say the least. 

Picking her up, he carries her down the steps, through the house, and out the back sliding door by the kitchen. Roman places her in the grass, letting her do her business as he goes to sit down on the edge of one of the chaise lounge.

He closes his eyes.

Love. 

Suck a weird fucking thing. Something he’s never really understood. 

Or felt. 

Not….not in this aspect at least. 

He’s always been confounded by the emotion that makes people act so outside of their character, clouds their judgment, and seizes their brain in crippling ways. He never saw the appeal in it. Never wanted it.

And then came Solana. 

If someone had told him four months ago that he’d not only be married to a woman he actually cares about let alone would end up loving, he’d probably knock them flat on their ass. Harshly criticize their stupidity at the very least. 

Falling in love with Solana was never the plan. He never wanted this for himself. He just needed to marry to create an official heir. And that was it. She would do her thing, taking care of the kid and whatnot. And he would still do him, continuing his life of commitment free sexual relations with whoever was his flavor of the week. Or day. 

And yet all of that, just the thought of it, sours his expression. 

He doesn’t want anyone other than Solana. Doesn’t desire to be intimate with anyone other than her. It’s her he wants to wake up to every morning, her he wants to make happy. He just wants her. Nobody else.

Because he loves her.

And it’s a shocking, life changing realization he finally stumbled into while sitting at her hospital bed. An epiphany he’s certain was heavily transitioned from subconscious to conscious given the events that transpired that night.

She almost died, was almost shot, and there’s not a fucking part of him would do anything differently. He’d take that bullet and any other bullet for her anytime. 

Because he loves her.

He stood between her and her piece of shit father, not thinking twice about it, only knowing that decision would forever negatively change her life. Thinking how he promised her he would never let her end up in that position. 

Because he loves her. 

And he sat at her hospital bed, holding her hand, pouring his heart out to her because the second those infamous words left Jey’s mouth, his world nearly collapsed. He couldn’t think straight as he rushed to the hospital, uncaring and uninterested in anything except being with her, holding her, catering to her. Whatever she needed. He just needs her to be okay. 

Because he loves her.

Roman’s head tilts back, the weight of all this lying on his chest. 

He can’t deny it. Can’t deny he loves her. Not to himself, at least. He just doesn’t know what the fuck to do about it.

There’s…..there’s no room for love in his life. No place for it. Love is weakness, and Roman has never and can never be weak. He’s the Tribal Chief. The Head of the Table. The leader of the Bloodline and Cosa Nostra. There is no space for weakness.

Or love. 

And yet….it’s there.

It’s there for her. 

Dulce walking over to the chaise lounge that Roman realizes is usually the one she sits on when she’s writing brings him back to the sadness that creeps in at her absence. Dulce must feel the same as she lays down, ears also down, whimpering.

Roman beckons her over, watching as she slowly walks over to his feet, ears still down as he picks her up and places her on his lap. It’s something not even a week ago he would probably do. But, that was then, and this is now. 

And now, he almost feels a sense of duty to Solana’s puppy. 

Because it’s this same puppy, he’s learned, that barked nonstop at Bayley and Naomi, running over to Solana and starting to cry, effectively alerting them that something was wrong.

Very wrong.

With an uncharacteristic level of emotion, Roman gently strokes the top of her head. “You saved her life….” For his own mental sanity, Roman chooses not to think about what the alternative could have been. What his reality would be if this small, five pound animal didn’t have such a close, protective bond to her human. “Thank you.”

Dulce whimpers in response, laying her body on his lap, staring at the empty pool chair. 

Roman sighs, eyes shutting again. 

The emotion is undeniable as he acknowledges in a soft voice. “I miss her too..”

This shit is much harder than he realized. 

________

Roman: How are you doing? 

Solana glances at her lock screen at hearing the familiar, personalized notification sound. The sound she set specifically for texts from her husband. Her smile is already set on her face but settles into something deeper as another message slides in.

Roman: Do you need me to come home?

Placing the pencil down on the nearest surface, she swaps out her task at hand for a brief break to respond to the question she anticipated would be proposed at some point in the day. 

Just not this soon, perhaps.

Solana wipes one hand on her shorts, the other unlocking her phone to open his thread. Preparing to reply, her gaze shifts over to her sweet baby boy, sleeping peacefully in his infant pillow. Low, relaxing music plays from her Alexa on the nightstand, lulling and keeping him in his slumber. Similarly, Dulce lays peacefully in her bed on Solana’s side of the bed, curled into a little ball.

The smile somehow grows deeper.

Solana: I’m okay. You don’t need to come home, really.

Solana quickly snaps a photo of the baby and includes it with her next message.

Solana: We’re good. :) 

Solana brings her finger to gently caress her son’s cheek. He has such a calm disposition about him. Even at 6 weeks. She can just see he’s taken on more of her demeanor than his dad’s. Granted, she also noticed the same thing about her oldest twin, only for her to gradually be morphing into the female version of her father.

Roman hearting the photo captures her attention once again followed by his reply, which seems to be the result of long distance mind reading.

Roman: He’s been a lot easier than the girls were. But, time will tell. 

Roman: Where are they?

She giggles, imagining his elongated sigh as he considers what could be in store for them once their son starts to get bigger and older. Can move around and get into things with his sisters. It’s more likely than not bound to happen.

Solana: In their playrooms. They’ve been surprisingly quiet too….for now. Lol

Solana knows her girls well enough to know silence with them, mostly when they’re together, isn’t usually long lived. The quieter of the two is very much like Solana, able to stay and keep to herself just fine without making much or any noise. Her sister, however, older by 6 minutes exactly, is not.

She is rambunctious and loud and loves to be moving. And when they’re together, that adventurous nature rubs off on Solana’s twin, usually resulting in them getting into something. More often than not.

Roman: I talked to them last night. Reminded them it's important they listen and help you out.

This is something she already knew, having overheard as he put them to bed while she catered to their newborn. He’s done that a lot since the birth of their son. Really taken over as much as he can with helping the girls, when it’s something he can do. And if he can’t do it, like them wanting to do art with her or bake something, usually the youngest vs the oldest, he’s on baby duty. 

Whether he realizes it or not, he truly is great at being a dad. Though something tells her, always has, that even three kids deep, he struggles with that insecurity at not being good at it.

Not being good enough.

Roman: I still think it was too early for me to come back to work and leave you alone with everything.

And there it is. What Solana already knew he was thinking but is happy to see him finally admit. Roman’s been working from home the past six weeks, since the birth of their son. And while she’s appreciated having him home, helping her out with managing their growing family, it was time for him to return back to the ‘office.’ 

She knows he worries about her, worries about her feeling overwhelmed, but she’s been good the past few years with being open with him. That hasn’t and won’t change. 

Solana: You were going to have to go back eventually, Ro. I’m okay, really. The girls really don’t cause me any issues. And he’s easy.

Solana: Outside of when he’s groping and squeezing the mess out of my breast. 😅

Breastfeeding has never been much of an issue for Solana. And, while it was definitely a bit of a challenge breastfeeding twins, there was never a pressing enough problem for her to not consider doing the same for her third child.

Granted, unlike the girls who, at most, felt around her breast while getting their fill, her son is more handsy. His little palms often slapping, squeezing and even scratching with his nails she makes sure to try to keep cut low. 

She chuckles, thinking about how this could very much be another small sign she’s in store for yet another energetic child. It lines up though. Even when he’s sleepy, little scowl on his face, she sees Roman. In all of the children, really. But with him, the way his little lips dip and light eyebrows cave into a look of unmistakable disapproval, usually when she takes too long to pick him up or feed him, that’s all Roman.

Roman: Smart kid. 

She giggles, sending out a reply that’s a result of years of growing more comfortable with teetering the lines of risque topics and innuendos.

Solana: Your kid, clearly. 😅

Roman: Damn straight.

Chewing on her bottom lip, she keeps the conversation going with another risky text. 

Solana: Just two more weeks until I’m….cleared. 

Over the years, and as she’s continued to heal, Solana has found herself with a sexual appetite that’s nowhere near her husband’s nor most women her age, but it’s there. Coming and going. Ebbing and flowing. And lately, it’s been on the flowing side.

Roman: We should wait longer. 

Roman: I’m not taking any risks.

She sighs at his reply that’s not entirely unsurprising. He absolutely would want to go past the recommended 8 weeks that she was told by her doctor that they would need to wait to resume intimacy. An extended period of time than the usual 6 weeks due to the second degree tear she sustained while birthing her third child. A thing that can happen during childbirth and wasn’t anything too serious, but something she knows her husband sees as just that.

Thus him wanting to not ‘take any risks.’ 

Solana: I understand.

Understanding is different from agreeing, but she won’t push him on it. 

Solana: Besides, don’t want to risk another baby.

Solana: Just yet anyway….

Having this conversation over text probably isn’t the way to go, but she has no doubt he’ll talk with her about it more in person when he comes home tonight, after all three kids are down for bed.

That doesn’t mean they can’t start it now, at least, though.

Roman: Seriously? You really want another baby?

Roman: He isn’t even a year yet.

Roman: You forget I’m 10 years older than you. I’m getting too old for all these kids, Solana.

It’s true they just welcomed their baby boy not even two months ago. And Roman is aging. He’s older, the gray in his beard spreading by the day, but he’s still just as active and fit into his forties as he was when they met years prior. Thus, he’s exaggerating. 

Solana: No, you’re not.

Solana: And that wasn’t a no…..

His reply comes in a bit quicker than she was anticipating. 

Roman: It wasn’t. 

She smiles. Solana has learned her husband well over the years. Knows him well enough to know that if there wasn’t a part of him also interested in maybe having another child, he would be clear about his standpoint. He would express his disagreement. 

So his comment would suggest he’s not team no. That he’s open, and his following texts confirm as such.

Roman: But, this would be it. Four is more than enough.

She smiles, knowing that this definitely will still be discussed in person tonight but happy that he’s unwilling to deny himself. Solana’s love for him has only deepened since seeing him step into the role of fatherhood. 

She just wishes she could get him to see how good he is at this. The girls wouldn’t adore him as much as they do if he was bad at it, per se.

But, he’s not.

If only he could see it. 

Solana: Unless we get another set of twins….😅

Roman: Jesus Christ 

Solana giggles, imagining the look he must have on his face. Probably similar to when they found out about the girls. She wasn’t entirely surprised given how strongly twins run on his side of the family.

But, he most certainly was.

A quiet knock pulls her from the conversation as she lays her eyes on the twins who are waiting by the door with hesitant expressions. She waves them over, placing her finger over her mouth to remind them to be quiet to avoid waking up the still sleeping baby.

They tip toe over to her, moving to her side of the bed, leaning over and looking at him. The oldest is the one to ask, whispering, “why does he sleep so much, mama?”

Solana chuckles. “That’s what babies do. They need a lot of sleep to grow big and strong.”

The quieter of the two of them deviates from her usual silence to predict, “he’s gonna be big and strong like papa.”

The oldest, however, doesn’t hesitate to reiterate. “I’m still gonna be the tribal chief though.”

Solana has such a torn reaction she does well at hiding. As much as she loves how much her technically first born admires Roman and wants to be just like him, she also has no idea just what it is that Roman really does. The true weight that comes with wearing the Ula Fala. 

Or the fact that by his family’s laws and traditions, their son is the true heir to the Bloodline. Granted, she also suspects it’s those same laws and traditions Roman will fight tooth and nail to change should their daughter, even after knowing the truth about the Bloodline, still want to pursue taking his place when the time comes for him to step down.

Roman would do anything to give her just as much a chance to the keys to the kingdom as her brother.

But, that’s so far down the line, and Solana doesn’t like thinking about it too much. She just wants to enjoy her children as they are now, innocent and oblivious.

Ms. Quiet stays on her talking streak, asking quietly, “can we still go to aunt Bayley’s house today?”

Solana nods. She briefly forgot about that, but it’s still very much doable. “Of course.” 

The girls gasp and look at each other, Solana already knowing another request is about to follow. Roman’s little twin ends up being the one to ask, “mama, can we go see papa at his office before?”

She shouldn’t be surprised. One of their favorite things to do is stop by and see Roman while he’s at work. Something she hasn’t done in some time, not since the birth of her son and even then, it had been a few months.

Solana starts to text and ask him if he’s busy, but one look at the happiness on the girls’ faces at being able to see their dad, and she knows she doesn’t need to.

She knows there’s no way on God’s green earth that he would turn them away, even if he stopped or canceled a meeting just to interact with them.

That’s just the kind of father he is.

His kids come first. 

With excitement bubbling in her stomach at seeing her husband, Solana takes a glance at her son, smile growing as he stirs, clearly just as ready to see daddy. 

She then looks back at her just excited girls, sharing, “time to go see papa.”

“Time to get up.”

Solana has to blink a couple of times to reorient herself, almost entirely due to the shocking nature of her dream. A dream she’s now had every night since being admitted to the hospital, glimpses, and what feels like peeks, into the future.

Her future.

But, at the same time, it’s a distant thing that seems unattainable and unrealistic given where she is now. On a legally mandated psychiatric hold after attempting to die by suicide.

“You up, sweetie?”

Solana nods and sits up in the bed, accepting the water and pills in the small medicine bowl. She doesn’t hesitate to swallow all three, offering a small smile to the nurse who’s been assigned to her, making sure she takes her medication as prescribed.

The nurse, Carol, she thinks, reminds, “breakfast starts in twenty.”

Solana nods, pushing back some of her hair, waiting for the older woman to leave before she lays back down on the bed. 

She shuts her eyes. 

The past few days have been…..an experience. An emotional ride unlike any she’s been on in years. The last time she can recall struggling and feeling as heavy as she was was when she woke up from her coma and had it confirmed that her mother was dead. Something she knew but held onto the invisible string of hope that Nina somehow survived. 

Even though Solana still recalls the moment she heard and saw her mother take her last breath. 

It’s a weight that’s lessened tremendously over the past couple of days, since she woke up yet a second time, less irrational, not as hysterical. Part of her reaction was most definitely due to still feeling suicidal, still believing that being dead would be better for everyone. But her reaction was exacerbated by the fact that two male nurses moved to restrain her as she tried to move from the hospital bed. Having male hands on her like that was triggering and made her emotions that much more difficult to manage in an already tense situation.

But the second time she awoke, Solana saw nothing but women. Truth be told, she’s only had women on her care team since being admitted. It’s made such a big difference. 

All of it has.

Being in this space, so separated from the outside world. It’s been both difficult and welcomed. A nice escape from a recently draining reality but also a heavy separation that she’s brought up a couple times now in her individual therapy sessions with her therapist, Gail.

That is the difficulty in being separated from Roman. It’s a dichotomy. As much as she wants to see and talk to him, she wants to hide and avoid him. She wants to explain yet also never have to discuss it again. An avoidance behavior that is typical for survivors of suicide attempts, another thing she’s learned in therapy thus far. 

But more than anything, Solana just wants to talk to him. She remembers from when she was admitted as a teen following her first attempt that communication is typically cut off from the outside. She just didn’t realize it would be the same protocol as an adult. 

Something intended to avoid patients from being re-triggered. She gets that, but it doesn't make her miss him any less. 

This is the first time they’ve been separated from one another since before the wedding, and it’s not a fun experience. 

But yet….

It’s not a horrible experience either.

No one wants to be in the hospital. And no one definitely wants to be in the hospital on a legal hold because they’ve been deemed a danger to themselves and thus needs 24/7 supervision.

That part sucks, but what hasn’t sucked for Solana is being able to be as honest and vulnerable as she needs to be. To cry and fully acknowledge the extent of her feelings, to be as raw as she’s been in her therapy sessions thus far with Gail. The woman whose kind smile, non-judgemental and self-disclosure of also being violated has created such a safe space for her. 

Solana knew, knows, that she can talk to Roman. That he’s made it clear there’s nothing she can’t discuss with him. But, there’s something about speaking to another woman, someone who’s also sadly been through something similar that’s….that’s healing, almost. 

Knowing Carol will be back for another reminder about breakfast, Solana pulls from her thoughts and leaves her bed to start her day.

Everything in the hospital is planned, time cut out for everything from meds, breakfast, group therapy, individual therapy and more. There’s only so much time in the day that’s reserved as ‘free time,’ though being hospitalized doesn’t present a ton of options for one to choose from during said ‘free time.’

However, Solana has always been able to occupy herself and keep herself busy, and this is no different. 

Later that day, she’s in one of the common areas, utilizing her free time with one of her favorite coping mechanisms. One she’s recently revisited and brought back to lean on. Pencil in hand, Solana uses the sketchbook she was given by Gail. No particular drawing in mind, it’s not missed on her how the bare bones outline of the face she’s drawing has very similar features to that of her husband.

“Hey.”

Solana lifts her head from the page, landing on two women who she’s seen in passing and up close in her group therapy. Both are brunette with similar heights yet different builds. The shorter one looks like she keeps herself in the gym, slender muscles visible even with the hospital provided clothing they all wear. The other is a few inches taller and curvier, her breast stretched against the material. The shorter one is the one who spoke. One looks amenable, the other does not. The one who spoke is, unfortunately, not the one with the friendly expression.

Solana swallows, gaze somewhat traveling as she sees one of the orderlies already watching the interaction. Closely. He’s a big man whose size looks disproportionate to the job he holds here, and she’s noticed him watching her a couple of times. Yet, it’s never been a predatory gaze. Almost…..protective.

“Solana, right?” She nods as the two women plop on the other sofa adjacent to the one Solana sits on. “I’m AJ, and this is Candice.” She gestures to the other woman with her thumb, the brunette waving and smiling almost giddily. Before Solana can say anything else, AJ is leaned over, asking in a low voice. “You’re Roman’s wife, right?”

Solana tenses. For some reason, that rubs her the wrong way, sends an unfamiliar chill up her spine. Something in her tells her to lie, but it’s no use in denying the obvious. “Yes.”

AJ snorts and sits back, arm lazily lounged up on the top of the sofa. “Well, I was gonna ask you how’d you end up here, but I guess that’s an obvious answer.” AJ laughs darkly, making her comment to Candice but directing it towards Solana. “I’d try to off myself too if I had to be married to that son of a bitch.”

Clearly, Solana has not been in a good place recently, hence her current situation. Her emotions have been all over the place. That’s why she chalks up her next actions to the fact that she’s still coming down from her relapse. 

Closing up the sketchpad, Solana sits up and doesn't stutter as she states clearly and concisely to AJ, “you have no idea what the hell you’re talking about, so why don’t you just shut up and leave me alone?” 

Candice's shock matches that of Solana’s, but the former doesn’t back down. Doesn’t suddenly regret her statement. Maybe it’s adrenaline. Maybe it’s the fact that Solana feels the anger stirring inside her at even the insinuation that Roman could ever be the cause of her trying to end her life.

When he’s the one that saved it. 

AJ, however, doesn’t look shocked. She looks pissed off.

And then she’s smiling. 

“Oh, sweetie, you have no idea who you’re messing with.” AJ starts to stand up, Candice following suit though she looks more confused and dumbfounded than anything. Like she’s there but not here. “Your psychopath husband isn’t here to save you—”

“You lay one hand on her, and I’ll snap your fucking neck like a twig.”

Three sets of eyes land on the figure who’s way too big for them to have not heard his footsteps, but that’s exactly what’s happened. The orderly who Solana has noticed watching her since her admission is standing almost protectively beside where she still sits on the sofa. His gaze and voice are hard as steel, focused on AJ and Candice. “I suggest you leave. Now. And stay the hell away from her.”

Solana looks between this man who, for some reason, is defending her and AJ, who still looks more amused than anything. She scoffs. “Of course.” Frowning, Solana is still stuck on the fact that this orderly who’s working in a psychiatric wing for women who’ve tried to kill themselves just threatened to kill another woman when AJ simply turns to walk away, Candice hot on her heel.

And as soon as they're out of the vicinity, the man steps back, as if wanting to grant Solana space. He then exclaims, further deepening her shock, “you’ll be safe here, Mrs. Reigns. You have my word.” 

Mrs. Reigns…..

Solana is suddenly taken back to her birthday trip, the way she was addressed by the pilots, the chef, and anyone else that Roman hired to assist them on their vacation. And that’s when it hits her.

“Bloodline…..” It makes so much sense. Why he’s always seemed to be around when she’s not in her room, the way he’s watched her almost nonstop since she arrived, the way he intervened just now. “You’re Bloodline.”

“Dave.” He offers a small, respectful smile that’s all the answer she needs. “But everyone calls me by my last name, Bautista.”

________

“Hey.”

It’s interesting how a simple word can bring on such a reaction.

Just yesterday, the same word was said to her and followed up with a not terrible but strange interaction.

She can only pray this time around is different. 

Solana takes a second to pause and shut her eyes before she looks up from her inner arm where she works on the assignment given in her first group therapy session.

Her eyes land on three women, all familiar faces because they’re all in her group. However, she’s never directly spoken to them prior to now.

Solana swallows and offers a small smile. “Hi….” 

Solana studies all of them, different in skintones, builds, hair colors and even facial expressions. The one who spoke first pushes her raven hair over shoulder and clears her throat, asking, “is it—is it true that your husband had the orderlies and security replaced with Bloodline members?”

The question takes her back, Solana unsure of how to respond, not because she doesn’t know the answer. She does. Baustista indirectly confirming that he was sent by her husband to watch over her has made Solana realize that it’s not just him who she catches watching her whenever she’s not in her room. It’s other men as well. Big, strong, much too in shape for a job like this.

The only logical thing that makes sense to her is that Roman is, once again, looking out for her. As he always does. 

“That’s pretty fucking cool. If so.” Another one comments, her brunette pulled to the side of her neck as she sits down on the sofa opposite Solana. “It was even better seeing AJ put in her place.”

Solana swallows, quite unsure just how to respond to that. “I—I don’t want to cause any problems.”

The first woman scoffs, also sitting down next to the other lady. “You might not, but AJ does. I honestly don’t know why they don’t put her in the other wing with Victoria.”

“The other wing?”

The third woman breaks her silence, explaining, her voice quiet and typical for her equally unassuming demeanor. “There’s two psychiatric wings here. The one we’re in and another for more….severe cases.”

“I.e. the really crazy bitches.”

“Melina!” The woman with brunette hair shakes her head, smiling a little as she formally introduces everyone. “I’m Mickey. This is Melina, and that’s Cameron, but we call her Cam.”

For some reasons, the names fit all of them, Solana moving to the side as Cam gestures to the space next to her and takes an almost apprehensive seat. 

“Solana—”

“Oh, everyone knows who you are, girl.” Mickey snickers, leaning back into the sofa and crossing her legs over one another. “You might just be my new favorite person.”

Solana frowns, completely lost at this seemingly random title. “I don’t—-I don’t understand.”

“AJ thinks she runs shit around here. Her and that dumbass friend of hers, Candice Michelle.” Melina explains, shaking her head. “AJ definitely should be in the other ward with Victoria. She’s the psychiatrist that runs it. Doesn’t put up with shit. Almost polar opposite of Dr. Stratus.”

Solana doesn’t know much beyond what’s being said, but something tells her she’s most definitely in the better of two places. Even if just getting to have Dr. Stratus manages her meds. She really likes her. 

However, this conversation brings up a very valid question that Solana doesn’t exactly know how to word very well but finds it in her to ask. “So you all….you’ve been here before?” 

It’s obvious, given the fact that they’re all so familiar with each other and dynamics. Same with this AJ and Candice person, but Solana doesn’t want to assume.

There’s a silence that falls over the women, and Solana instantly feels bad, feels silly for not recognizing how invasive that question is. However, before she can apologize, Cam is the one to speak up.

Shrugging, her smile is tight and undeniably sad as she says so simply, “demons are hard to kill.”

And just like that, Solana has never related to something more.

Feeling overcome with an almost duty to share, her eyes drop to her arms, the intricate outlines of butterflies camouflaging the scars that will never fully go away. “I get that……I really do.”

Looking up, Solana feels the set of understanding gazes on her, instantly knowing without any of them needing to share specifics that they just get it. They understand the specific and tragic ways one can end up in a place like this, oftentimes due to demons beyond their slaughtering capabilities. 

Mickey clears her throat, gesturing to Solana’s arm. “You’re really good.”

She glances down at her still unfinished art, a small smile falling on her face. “Thank you.” An idea crosses her mind as she notices each of them attempted to follow through on the assignment as well but clearly struggled. “I can—I can help, if you want?” 

Cam gasps, obviously excited by the idea of it. “Really?”

Solana’s smile grows as she explains, “I—I love art.”

Mickey squeals almost and pulls out a black sharpie from her bra, shrugging with a playful smile. 

“We were kinda hoping you said that.”

________

“You’re quiet today.” Gail’s assessment continues as she asks in a gentle voice, “are you nervous?”

Nervous is an understatement. Solana fidgets on the sofa, running her hands down her sweats. “I—I haven’t seen or spoken to him since….you know.”

Gail presses her lips together, nodding. “You don’t know what to expect.”

Solana nods, eyes starting to water. “I don’t—I don’t want him to be upset with me.” 

It’s officially been a week since Solana has been admitted into the psychiatric ward. An interesting experience, to say the least. She’s made enemies, made ‘friends’, worked through and started to process with a professional so much of her trauma, and more. And while her longing for seeing and speaking to her husband has only continued to grow by the day. The day finally being here where she’s allowed a visitor, where he will come to see her this evening feels almost….it feels too soon.

She’s just so nervous, unsure of what that reunion is going to look like. 

Gail sees the thoughts brewing in her client’s head as she asks in an attempt to redirect, “are you responsible for his emotions?”

“No, but….but I—” When she struggles to get out a coherent response, Gail presents a thought provoking question.

“Solana, based upon what you know about Roman, what’s more likely? That he’ll be upset with you or that he’ll just be happy that you’re alive?”

It’s such a good question, one that has the emotion bubbling in the back of her throat, emotion she shows as silent tears begin to fall. “I—I want him to be happy, but…..”

“You’re still struggling with feeling like a burden to him….” It’s an assessment by her therapist that is wholly correct, but one Solana can’t verbally comment on, only offering her agreement with a silent head nod. “Do you remember the exercise we did a couple of sessions ago about faulty thinking? About the ways your trauma influences your thinking.” 

Solana reflects back on that session, so heavy yet so helpful. It provided her such insight on just how deeply her experiences have painted her view of so much. Of everything, really. Including how she so lowly views herself sometimes. 

“I want you to think about that and compare it to the thoughts that you’re having now……where are they coming from?”

Solana closes her eyes and blows out a breath. “My…my fear.”

“And if your fear was a living, breathing entity sitting opposite beside you right now, how would you combat it? Think about the cognitive challenging we discussed.”

Keeping her eyes shut, Solana travels back to that session, utilizing the skills and tips and knowledge she’s learned since her admission.

She takes an ‘efficient breath’, as Gail calls them. “I’d tell my fear that….that you don’t get to control me anymore.”

Gail smiles softly, gently encouraging the young woman to continue. “What else?”

Silent tears continue to fall, but Solana’s voice remains firm and unwavering. “And that….that Roman cares about me and just wants me to be okay and….and get better.”

Gail hasn’t felt so proud and pleased with a client’s response to the empty chair exercise in quite a while. “Exactly.” She sits back in her own chair, jotting down some notes. “Can I ask what you’re feeling right now?”

Solana finally opens her eyes and wipes at her eyes, scoffing quietly. “A…a little better, actually.” She motions to her chest. “It doesn’t….it doesn’t feel as heavy.”

“Good.” Gail makes note of this and starts to ask a follow up processing question when Solana’s soft voice beats her to it.

“Can…..can I talk about something with you?”

Gail’s grin is warm and welcoming as she offers genuine assurance. “Solana, there’s nothing we can’t discuss here.” She’s pleased to see Solana’s smile grow at this reassurance. “What would you like to talk about?”

Feeling on the spot all of a sudden, despite being the one who initiated the conversation, Solana does her best to manage and push through her anxiety. “I—I’ve been….I’ve been having dreams since I got here.”

Gail is mindful of her expression as she asks in a soft voice, “dreams or…..”

Sensing what she’s asking, Solana quickly shakes her head. “No. Not those. Not nightmares. They….they really are dreams. Good dreams, I—I think.”

Studying her, Gail assesses. “You seem unsure.” 

Deciding to bite the bullet, Solana shares in a low voice, “they’re dreams of me in the future…..as….as a mother.”

Gail nods. “I see.” She makes note of one of Solana’s nonverbals. “You’re smiling right now.”

Sniffling, Solana continues to share and exhibit so much vulnerability, most of which is solely because of how safe and non-judged Gail has made her feel. “In the dreams, we have three kids. Twin girls and a baby boy.” She wipes at her nose and swallows deeply. “I—I want to be a mom someday, but I don’t….I don’t want to be a bad mom.”

If these dreams have shown her anything, it’s that she wants more than anything to be a positive influence in her future child, or children's, lives. She doesn’t want to cause them even a fraction of the parental trauma she’s experienced. 

And deep down, Solana knows that she’s absolutely nothing like her father.

But, she knows she’s very much been deeply impacted by her fathers’ abuse. By all of her trauma. And the last thing she wants is for any of that to negatively influence her children. 

“Solana, what makes you think you could ever be a bad mother?” She shrugs, shutting down a bit. Gail sighs lowly, offering words of affirmation and support. “You are not a bad person. You are not a broken person. Not a damaged person. Just a person who’s been dealt some not so  great cards, but you’re here, working on these things. Working on becoming a healthier version of yourself.” Gail chuckles, pointing out, “that doesn’t sound like a bad future mother to me.”

Really sitting on the words of encouragement and doing her best to not let the self-doubt creep in, Solana asks in a voice barely above a whisper, “do you….do you really think I could be a good mother?”

Gail’s response is almost immediate, not a thought to be had as she answers honestly, “Solana, I think you could be a damn good mother.” 

Solana laughs, emotion seeping in as she nods, utterly grateful for such kind words. “Thank….thank you. That….that means a lot to me.”

“Of course.” Gail would like to process this more, maybe get into some additional trauma work, but there’s another important thing on her agenda for this session. “Solana, as you know, your hold will be up exactly one week from now, meaning you’ll be officially discharged and allowed to return home.”

Solana eyes lighten up at that, an expected reaction as Gail gently slides into a deeper conversation pertaining to her release. “But, there’s something I would like to speak to you about.”

________

Roman doesn’t think twice as he walks into the room that’s suspiciously quiet to be located in a hospital, decorated just as one would expect a therapist’s office to look. He only briefly takes a look around before plopping his big body down on the sofa. 

He didn’t even pay any attention to the fact that Gail was attempting to extend an olive branch, offering a handshake that he so rudely ignored, clearly ready to get this over with.

She keeps her togetherness, offering a verbal introduction. “Thank you for com—”

“This has to do with Solana, right?”

Gail makes a face, pressing her lips together as she chuckles quietly. “Of course.”

“Then get to it.” Roman is quick with the demands, asking, “how is she doing?”

Gail offers a tight smile. “I’m Gail Kim, the therapist on staff who’s been handling Solana’s individual therapy sessions.”

“Did I ask you who you were?” His stare is cold and uninterested. “I asked you how she’s doing.”

Sighing, Gail refers to the tablet on her lap, opening up the notes she’s happy that she prepared ahead of time. This is going exactly as she predicted it would. “Your wife is no longer endorsing suicidal ideation which means she’s denying any thoughts and plans to take her life, which is significant progress considering it’s only been a week—”

There’s a hint of hopefulness in both his expression and voice as he asks, “so, she’s ready to come home?”

Gail hesitates. “Not exactly.”

The previous hopefulness melts into something cold and harsh. Roman is visibly and understandably irritated. “You just said she’s not suicidal anymore.”

“Yes, but it’s not that simple. Solana is….she’s an interesting case. Her trauma history is significant. Though she seems to be on the way to stabilization, there’s still a lot of work that needs to be done. She needs continued professional help.”

“Isn’t that why she’s here with you?” His tone is cruel and condescending. “If you’re too fucking incompetent to help her, let me take her home, so I can.”

Gail bites the inside of her cheek. If this was anyone else, she would set them straight on the importance of mutual respect. But, this isn’t just anyone. This is Roman Reigns, and she’s well aware of the fact that one wrong statement or sign of disrespect could very well end her life, so she does her best to remain calm and professional. And she tries an alternative approach. 

“You know, one of the exercises she did in an individual session asks about what safe spaces she has, sources of support and whatnot. And you know what she put down for almost every answer?” Gail gives a small, closed mouth smile. “You.” Well trained in reading nonverbals, she picks up on the brief giveaway sign of emotion that flashes in Roman’s eyes at this. “She put down that you are her number one reason for wanting to live.” 

There’s a good minute of silence before Roman asks in an uncharacteristically low voice. “So why did she do it?”

Gail's smile shifts into a solemn frown. “I’ll leave that discussion to the two of you. She’s expressed wanting to talk with you about that directly.”

“I’m asking you.”

Gail leans back in her chair and goes a different route. “It’s okay to be upset with her. To be angry at her. To be angry at and blame yourself.” Gail catches just a glimpse of surprise in his eyes at the last part. “To actually feel your feelings.”

Roman, however, is uninterested in any of this. Offended even. “Why the hell would I be angry at her?”

“Why wouldn’t you be? She tried to leave you. That’s essentially what suicide is. Escapism. It provides the patient with the peace they’re looking for but leaves the loved ones left behind with a world of questions and emotions.” She explains, mindful of her tone and voice. “Two truths can exist in the same universe. You can be happy she wasn’t successful and still angry at her for trying in the first place.”

Roman is quiet for a good two minutes, Gail wondering if she should transition to another topic when he breaks said silence in that same low voice. 

“I don’t understand why she didn’t call me. I told her to tell me if…..if those thoughts ever returned.”

“But she didn’t…..” Gail’s voice softens as she adds, almost empathetically. “I think you’ll find talking with her will give you some of the answers you’re looking for. But, they truly should come from her.”

Roman won’t push. He wants to, but won’t. If this is something Solana wants to discuss with him herself, he’ll respect that. So long as it’s not triggering to her, which it seems, surprisingly, it’s not. 

Gail clears her throat and transitions to the next section. “Dr. Stratus started her on a medication regimen of Sertraline, 50mg and Wellbutrin, 100mg, once a day in the morning as well as Hydroxyzine, PRN, which means as needed. The Sertraline and Wellbutrin are antidepressants, and Hydroxyzine can be taken when she starts to feel overwhelmed or triggered. So far, she’s responding well, though it typically takes 4 to 6 weeks for patients to truly notice the full benefits.” 

Roman nods, as Gina or whatever her name is, continues to explain what’s otherwise obvious. 

“We’ve been administering her medication and given how she attempted to take her life, Dr. Stratus and I strongly advise that you or someone else take over that administration upon her discharge—”

“Do you honestly think I’m stupid enough to allow her to have unmonitored access to pills again?” Roman doesn’t even try, not that he was before, to hide his frustration and irritation. She’s acting like he’s stupid. His degrees may be in business, but one doesn’t need to have a degree in behavioral health to know thatyou don’t give a formerly suicidal person free access to the same method they used to take their life. 

Gail, however, decides to not feed into it. “You know, anger is sometimes just anger. Just people mad as hell. But sometimes….sometimes it’s what we call a blanket emotion, meaning there are other feelings hiding beneath it, being presented as anger.”

Roma sits forward. “Just what the hell are you trying to insinuate?”

“Nothing at all, Mr. Reigns.” A small smile falls on her face, and that only pisses him off even more. Is this bitch trying to patronize him or something? “But, you should know that we offer support for spouses and loved ones like yourself who are supporting—”

“The only thing I need for you to do is to help my wife, so I can get her the hell out of this place and home where she belongs.”

Gail takes a deep breath. 

It was worth a try. 

“I want to show you something.” She stands up from her chair, moving to her desk as she pulls out a key to unlock the drawer. “Solana signed a full release authorizing us to share all details regarding her care with you. But, there are some things she’s explicitly expressed you not being okay with knowing and seeing. This is not one of them. And I think you would find it interesting….”

If not for the fact that the therapist already made it clear that safety concerns and suicidality are exceptions to confidentiality, Roman would be concerned, wondering just what exactly Solana doesn’t want him to know.

But something tells him she’s perhaps opened up in therapy about specifics regarding her trauma more than she has with him, and if that’s the case, his only hope is that this woman knows what she’s doing and doesn’t trigger Solana further.

She walks back over, handing him a set of sheets. Roman takes them, immediately noticing the handwriting. 

Solana’s handwriting. 

He gets to reading the bolded question that each has answers of varying length.

Who is your safe person? What makes this person safe?

My husband. He’s the first man in my life to not hurt me. The first man I’ve ever trusted.

On a scale of 1 to 10, how much do you trust this person with 1 being none and 10 being absolute trust?

 10

How does this person make you feel safe?

He’s patient with me and listens to me and makes me feel beautiful.

How does this person serve as a member of your support system?

He listens to me and always checks on me. 

How long have you experienced thoughts/urges/practices of self-harming behavior including suicidal ideation and/or attempts?

The first time I felt like I didn't want to be alive anymore was when I was ten. I woke up from my coma and realized my mother was dead. I just wanted to be with her. But it’s my brother constantly telling me I should kill myself after my mom’s murder that made me seriously think about doing it. 

He would tell me that it should have been me who died, and I should just kill myself because no one wanted me.

And I started to believe him. 

It’s been on and off since then.

Has there been a point in time where you have not had these thoughts/urges?

Yes. For the past four months. 

If you answered yes to the previous question, what caused or contributed to the cessation of these thoughts/urges?

I met my husband. I had real friends for the first time. I found myself having a real family for the first time in a long time. 

I was happy.

Prior to this gap, when was the last time you experienced any of these thoughts? What triggered them?

The day of my wedding. This was before I got to know my husband. I was scared he was going to beat me like my dad and brother.

What happened to re-trigger you? If uncomfortable sharing, list the emotions you felt during this episode. 

Sadness. Anger. Confusion.

Do you remember what thoughts you were experiencing before the suicidal and self-harming ideation returned? What were they?

I couldn’t stop thinking about my rape and my mother’s murder. It was like I was reliving them over and over again, and I couldn’t get the memories and flashbacks to stop. It felt like all my progress was reversed, and I’d have to start over, and I didn’t want to put my husband and family through that, as they’re the reason I even started to heal.

I just didn’t want to be in pain anymore, and I thought everyone would be happier if I was dead. I didn’t want to be a burden to my husband.

Looking back and reflecting on your thoughts, have they changed? And if so, how?

I don’t want to die. I still don’t feel as good as I was feeling before I found out the truth, but I’m not thinking or wanting to kill myself anymore. I still have a lot of things I want to do. I’m not ready to be done here. Just want to get better.

 Do you wish you would have done something different? What could you have done differently?

Yes.

Called my husband. 

Can you identify at least one reason your life is worth living?

Roman 

Roman has oscillated through so many different emotions reading through this worksheet from beginning to end. Anger seems like the dominant emotion, his jaw clenching as he learns how close to the paternal tree Solana’s bitch brother remained..

He’s not much better than Xavier. 

If not worse. 

And Roman is determined to find even more, additional ways to make that fucker suffer the way he made Solana suffer for so many years.

He’s also livid and something else unknown that on a day that should have been special for her, she was considering taking her own life.

And he hates himself for putting her in that position in the first place. He was the one who wanted to speed everything up, not even considering how traumatic that process could have been for her. 

But he especially doesn’t know how to feel reading just how highly Solana views and feels about him. She hasn’t been very quiet regarding how much she cares about him, but reading her words, her writing, her honesty, it makes him aware of just how much she cares. 

“You mean a lot to her. And her healing and progress moving forward will require your support.” Gail cuts in, voice calm and almost soothing. “One of the things I ask clients all the time is who their support system is and is there anything else they need from this person or persons….she couldn’t tell me a single thing she needs from you that you don’t already give her.” Roman says nothing, not even offering a nonverbal gesture or movement for her to analyze. Thus, Gail continues, reviewing her notes of topics she wanted to touch on with him prior to his seeing Solana in a few hours. “Now, I will say, Solana does exhibit strong codependent tendencies. Specifically with you. She’s extremely attached to you, and while that should probably be addressed at some point, her stabilization is the priority.”

Roman doesn’t pay much, or any, mind to that last part. He doesn’t care what this woman says. Whatever Solana needs, she’ll get. 

Especially if what she wants is him.

Cause he wants her just as much. 

________

Roman doesn’t get nervous. 

Ever.

But, he’s certain what he’s feeling in his fucking stomach is some level of nerves.

And he hates that shit.

Cause why the fuck is he at his grown age feeling anxious about seeing his wife? Perhaps it’s the fact that it’ll be the first time in a week that he’s actually laid eyes on her, seeing her not lying unconscious in a hospital bed. That he’ll be able to have her big brown eyes focused on him. Hear the sound of her voice, so soft and light.

He shuts his eyes.

Fucking nerves.

He decides to pull out his phone as a distraction while security escorts her to him in the visitors section, remembering a text from Paul that he should probably respond to. Not that he wants to, but it’s better standing here feeling fucking stupid and—

“Roman…”

He wasn’t sure just sure how he would respond or react or even feel seeing her for the first time in a week, but Solana is barely able to get his name out of his mouth when Roman snaps his head up from the phone in his hand to the direction of which the voice came. 

It happens a bit too fast for him to even process. The rise and easy falter of her smile, the gloss of her eyes, the tiny scoff of disbelief that leaves her mouth before she’s running toward him.  Roman wastes not a single fucking second to pick her up the minute she throws her body against him. And just like that, almost every trace of irritation, of vexation, of anger melts away.

Roman’s eyes shut as he holds her close against him, noticing how tightly she’s holding him back. 

Her voice cracks followed by a sniffle as she murmurs against his shoulder. “I’ve missed you….”

For a brief second, he’s angry again. Angry because has she been asking for him? And if so, why was he not informed? Stratus has been texting him frequent general updates. That she’s been consistently opening up in individual therapy, not as open in group sessions, often writes and draws during their designated free time, etc.

But nothing about her asking for him. 

He makes a mental note to ask Stratus about that shit, but not now. Now, his focus is entirely focused on the woman in his arms.

“I missed you too.” Saying he missed her feels like an understatement. Roman has been fucking miserable without her around, but what good would it serve her to share as such? So, he keeps it simple but still accurate.

He ignores the small part of him that dislikes when she finally pulls away, but that dissatisfaction is easily shoved to the side when he sees her eyes watering. “I’m so sorry. I—I didn't mean. I just—”

Roman’s focus is now solely honed in on stopping her from crying. He can’t see her upset. Not after what happened. He moves his hands to her face, gently cupping her cheeks and brushing away her tears. “Let’s talk, okay?”

She nods, stepping back, forcing his hands to drop but easily sliding her hand into one of his as she leads them in the direction from where she came. Roman won’t lie. He’s not paying attention to much in passing. Just her. It’s like there’s a blurred lens on them, distorting everything around them except his wife.

And he has zero issues with this. 

He has zero issues until they’re walking past a group of three women who seem to notice that Solana is crying and stop her, the one who almost looks like she could be Hispanic asks Solana, “are you alright?”

Who the fuck is this? Roman would most definitely ask as such as well as tell her to stay out of their damn business if not for the fact that Solana answers almost reassuringly. 

“Yes, of course.” 

To make matters worse, this irritating ass stranger has the audacity to almost send a suspicious damn near glare his way. Just who the fuck does she think she is? 

The woman on her right suddenly asks, her quiet voice strangely reminding him of Solana. Right off the bat, he can see they have similar demeanors. “You’re still joining us for breakfast, right?”

Solana answers right away, shaking her head. “Of course.”

Joining for breakfast? What the fuck is this? A psychiatric ward or summer camp?

The women all seem to give Solana that ‘call us if you need anything’ nod before finally leaving him alone with his wife. Roman has to keep his sigh to himself.

Only Solana would make ‘friends’ at a damn hospital.

She finally leads him into what he would guess is her ‘room.’ He’s instantly not impressed and annoyed because he directly instructed Stratus to make sure she had the best this place has to offer.

This clearly ain’t it. He adds it to his list of complaints to bring up to the psychiatrist. He’s also annoyed by the ‘sheet’ that serves at the door, irritated that they won’t have total privacy. But, he understands. It’s a psychiatric ward. Not the Four Seasons. 

Roman allows Solana to guide him over to her bed where she motions for him to sit down. He does as such, partially surprised when she climbs onto his lap, legs on either side. He doesn’t protest though, simply holds her by his hips as he shifts so that his back against the wall. 

Solana, however, keeps her head down, her hands scrunching the bottom of his shirt as she seems to force out, “I don’t want to talk about this—”

That’s an easy thing, Roman quickly moving to remind her of her autonomy. “Then don’t—”

She cuts him off. “But, I need to.” She finally lifts her gaze, and my God, he’s missed staring into those pretty eyes, seeing her pretty face. “I can’t—I won’t avoid it.” She takes a deep breath, asking, “what do you want to know?”

He’s partially surprised by how direct she’s being, but in his defense, the last time he spoke to her directly, she was in such a different place. A much darker place.

That doesn’t seem to be the case anymore, but he knows looks can be deceiving, so he remains cautious. His voice is surprisingly gentle, as he answers, “I think you already know the answer to that, Sol.”

Her eyes shut again, and he can’t tell if it’s because of his use of his nickname for her or the emotionality of it all. 

Both, probably. 

She brings her gaze back on him, and he hates seeing the emotion building back up. Logically, he knows that there’s no way to have this kind of conversation and emotion not be present. Doesn’t mean he has to like it though. “I just….I couldn’t think straight that night, Roman. I just kept reliving every bad thing that’s happened to me but now with the knowledge that it was my own father that was responsible. And I just….I couldn't handle it.”

This is the part he can barely handle. The knowing of the role, a large role, he played in what landed her here. He feels like shit about it and prepares to take ownership when she continues. 

“And I thought….I felt like….I felt like all the progress I had made was now gone and that I’d have to start over, and I just—-I couldn’t fathom going through all that again.” She swallows, tears starting to fall. “I felt like I would just be a burden to you and that….it would just be easier for you if I was dead.”

Gutted. Reading it was one thing, but hearing it is an entirely different experience. To know this is truly how she felt, the thought process that led to her making the decision she made. The most likely reason she didn’t call him.

Because she thought she was a burden.

It kills him.

She drops her head, and he moves his hands back to her face. “Solana, look at me.” When she continues to keep her head down, he repeats himself, voice still low and gentle. “Look at me.” She seems to hesitate but follows through, Roman hating how devastated she looks. “Nothing about my life would be easier without you in it. You are never a burden to me. You never have been, and you never will be. I want to help you. Listen to you. Whatever it is you need, I’ll do. I just need you to tell me.” This time, he’s the one swallowing back unfamiliar and uncomfortable emotions. “I just need you to not leave me, alright?” She seems slightly taken back by his honesty and vulnerability. Truthfully, so is he. It was one thing to be so honest with her while she was unconscious, but it’s another when she sits before him, aware and conscious and hanging onto every word. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about your father. I should have—”

“No. Please—please don’t.” She shakes her head, interrupting him with that same small voice. “I’m glad you didn’t.” The ‘shocked’ ball is back in his court as she explains, “I don’t….I don’t think I would have ever wanted to know the truth. It’s….it’s been too hard to have to deal with that.” 

Clearly. He can’t even begin to imagine what that’s like for her. To be stuck with the knowledge that her own flesh and blood could be so cruel, so hateful, so evil as to do what Xavier has done to his own daughter.

“The therapy has….it’s helped.” He believes it. Roman has noticed the sheets of paper that have positive affirmations and what he would guess are coping skills taped to the wall opposite her bed. She cracks a small, sad smile. “It’s….it’s been good for me.”

He believes that, too. He can see that. There’s a stark difference in her appearance, even with her being emotional as she is with the conversation at hand. She doesn’t look as fractured as the last time he saw her.

She looks stronger. Happier, even. It makes his chest swell with yet another unfamiliar sentiment.

Love, perhaps?

Just thinking about it has Roman clearing his throat, needing to focus on something other than that right now. “Have they been treating you okay?” This has been pretty high up, if not the highest, thing on his priority list.

She nods, Roman noticing and grateful that her tears are starting to dry up. “Yes. I….how many Bloodline men do you have here?”

“Enough.” She doesn’t need to know the full extent of just how above and beyond he went to ensure no one on staff at this hospital could be questionable about their intentions towards her. “I’m always gonna look out for you, baby. Always.”

Her eyes shut, not from feeling overwhelmed but something else. Something that seems less heavy and more comforting. 

Solana moves around on top of him, Roman somehow sensing what she’s trying to do, and he has zero hesitations.

He shifts his body, so he’s laying on her bed, his feet dangling off the edge of the bed, but it makes no difference to him as soon as she lays on top of him, her head cradled in his neck, her arms around him.’

“I’ve missed you.” Her arm laid against him, Roman reading to close his eyes when he catches onto something for the first time. He doesn’t know he missed it either, because it stands out. Roman gently takes her arm, turning it over.

On her inner forearm are a set of beautifully drawn butterflies of various sizes and colors, the largest being a dark blue color and the smaller one next to it, different shades of red and pinks. There are three much smaller butterflies under the two larger ones, two of them pink and the smallest also that same dark blue.

She looks up at him, offering a small smile. “It’s something they have us do in group therapy. They call it The Butterfly Project.” She shifts her body to show him her other forearm, revealing additional butterflies before she lays back down as she was. “You draw butterflies that represent the people in your life you care about and every time…you think of wanting to self-harm, you remember that you’re killing the butterflies. It’s like….like a reminder that people care about you.”

It’s an interesting concept, and judging by the emotion in her voice, a concept she resonates with deeply. Roman’s long index finger ghosts over the larger blue one as he asks, “who is this one for?” 

Solana’s smile deepens. “You.” He’s grateful that she continues to explain so he doesn't have to think much about that sentiment very similar to love that comes up at that admission. “And this one,” she gestures to the pink and red one. “--is me. My future self.” 

That doesn’t help the building emotion, so he again goes for distraction, motioning to the remaining three, asking, “and those?”

She swallows, something flashing in her eyes he can’t identify, answering gently, “I’ll tell you when I’m ready.”

Her answer confuses him. He doesn’t know what to make of it, but he doesn’t want to push her either. 

“How is Dulce?” She asks suddenly, the sadness in her voice returning.

Roman won’t tell her the way her puppy sometimes sits by the front door around the time she usually gets home from work or the way she whimpers at night every so often, clearly missing her owner. He’ll spare her that, offering only a morsel of the truth. 

“The usual. Sleeping most of the day. You can tell she misses you.” 

Solana frowns. “I miss her too.” She licks her lips, asking almost nervously, “how are Bay—”

Roman is quick to shut that down, a hint of harshness in his voice. “I don’t want to talk about them.”

Truth be told, he’s not sure if he’ll ever be able to look or view them the same ever again. It may be a bit irrational and unfair, but it’s how he feels. And truthfully speaking, he’s got ten million other things on his mind and in his heart he’s trying to sort through. 

“Roman…..” Solana sits up a bit, and he’s taken back for a second by how fucking beautiful she is. Even with the sadness in her eyes. “It wasn’t their fa—”

“Not now, Sol.” His tone takes on a gentler tone as he adds on, for good measure, “please. I just want to enjoy you.”

He knows she’ll bring it up again. She cares too much about the two women who Roman will never trust her with again to just let it go permanently. “Okay.” She lays herself back down on top of him, and Roman kisses the top of her head.

“How are you?”

He’s not quite sure why her question surprises him. But, the answer is an automatic, “fine.”

He’s far from fine, but she doesn't need to know that.

Again, Solana sits up, that frown almost deepening. “Are you sleeping?” She reaches over and caresses his beard. “You look tired. H–have you been taking your medicine?”

Roman is truly dumbfounded. She is the one who is currently a legally mandated patient in a psychiatric ward because she was actively suicidal only a week ago, and yet, she’s laying here worried about him. 

Roman has to push back that love feeling that’s returning. 

“I keep telling you not to worry about me,” he reminds, once again wanting and almost needing to stress to her that worrying about him should be the last thing on her plate.. “I just want you to focus on yourself.”

Her retort surprises him, bold and almost uncharacteristic of her. “And I keep telling you that I’m always going to worry about you.”

Roman chuckles, commenting, “you’re becoming more outspoken….”

She gives him a small smile. “I told you the therapy has been helping.”

Roman scoffs. She’s right. Maybe that Gemma woman does know what she’s doing. 

“Do you need anything?”

Solana says nothing, just lays back down against him, her hand moving over his chest, resting on his heart. “Just you.” She must glance at the clock on the wall as she comments, “we only have 40 minutes left….”

He knows she’s referring to the one hour time block allotted for visitors. Something he absolutely couldn't give two shits about. “I’ll stay as long as you want me to.“ He’d stay the whole night if that was what she wanted. 

“Roman….” It’s funny how he already knows what she’s going to say. “The rules—”

His interruption is sharp, but it’s not aimed towards her. And she knows that. “I don’t give a fuck about rules when it comes to you.” She sighs into his chest, offering no protest, saying nothing else.

Conversation is intermittent over the next two or so hours, Solana eventually falling asleep on top of him. He doesn’t mind. As much as he enjoys talking to her, having her body on top of his is an easy, acceptable alternative.

He’s missed this. Missed being with and around her. Roman is just now realizing just how much he benefits from having her around. He’s been a complete nightmare for everyone around him outside of Dulce, even more temperamental than his usual default setting.

But the minute he laid eyes on her, saw her innocent smile, had her in his arms, everything suddenly felt so better.

That’s what she does for him. What she is for him. 

Medicine. 

An antidote. Something he never knew he was missing until he met her. It seems like it was almost impossible for him to not fall in love with her. 

Love….

Thinking about it again brings a frown to his handsome face, forcing him to face a reality that’s so easy to escape when he’s with her.

Roman may love Solana, but….he can never act on it. Not really. Can never tell her he loves her. That makes it official. That confirms that he finally has something his enemies can use against him, a distraction, a weakness.

Loving her openly would make him vulnerable, would put her at risk, and he couldn’t do that. Not just for himself but most definitely not to her. 

To be with her like this, open and vulnerable, behind closed doors is one thing. It’s an entirely different ballpark though to make that visible and public, even with just telling her.

Feeling her stir against him, Roman kisses the top of her head, tugging her closer. 

He won’t deny that he loves her. 

But, he can’t act on it either. 

He’s just going to have to find someway to push that down, tuck it away for safekeeping.

It’s just better that way. 

________

Roman stays for about two hours, Solana waking up and reluctantly expressing her okayness with him leaving. It’s not what she wants, definitely not what he wants, but it’s what’s necessary.

If even for the fact that Dulce can’t be left alone for too long.  

Solana holds onto his arm as she walks him out, Bautista not too far behind to escort her back to her room.

But, it’s when he turns to tell her bye, Roman about to ask her when she wants him to come see her again (fuck visting days), she surprises him by reaching behind her back and pulling out a sealed envelope. 

Brows furrowed, Roman is curious just how the hell he missed that when she presses it against his chest. “Promise me you won’t read it until you get home.” 

Now he’s extremely confused. It’s been a while since Solana has written to thim. They’ve progressed way past that, and it does concern him a bit that she didn’t just talk to him about whatever lies between the lines of this letter. 

But, he also knows she’s been working hard in therapy and even in being able to open up to him about what happened that night had to have been a lot for her, so he won’t push it and will respect it.

Accepting the letter, he simply says, “okay.”

She offers a close mouthed smile, a sign of appreciation and moves to hug him once more, mumbling something in Spanish against his chest that he can’t make out. When she pulls back, he doesn’t hesitate to cup her cheek, reiterating, “you need anything, you let me know, alright?” They’d already briefly discussed how she had picked up on the fact that he had his men stationed strategically all over this place, and any of them were able to get a message to him. 

She nods, repeating to him, “okay.” Solana tugs on his shirt and leans up to kiss his cheek, murmuring against his ear, “bye, Roman.”

It seems saying goodbye is difficult for her just as much as it is for him, Roman unable to reciprocate it, only letting his gaze follow her retreating form until Bautista gives him a nod and closes the door behind them. 

He stands there for a good minute or two before actually leaving.

Fuck. Leaving her seems to be getting harder and harder. 

Roman is barely in the SUV, door not even shut when his long fingers are moving with all the determination to open up the envelope. He unfolds the piece of paper, unsurprised to find her neat handwriting. 

Roman,

I need to ask you to do something for me, but I need you to please hear me out before you settle on an answer. And please know I wouldn’t be asking this of you if I didn’t believe it’s something I really need. 

I’m so sorry for putting you through this. I never want to cause you any stress or create any problems for you. 

I wasn’t in a good place, and this experience has made me realize there’s still a lot of parts of me that still need to heal. I still have a lot to work through. 

That’s why I’m asking.

Gail mentioned a treatment facility she runs about an hour away. It’s a 6 week program for women coming out of the hospital like I will be. 

Roman, I think I should go. 

I don’t think I should come home just yet.

I don’t feel ready. I’m not having those thoughts or urges anymore, but there’s still things I think I need to work through. I don’t ever want to put you through something like this again. I don’t ever want to end up back here again, but the only way I can do that is by making sure I’m good before I leave.

And I don’t know if another week can do that. 

I miss you. So much. It’s been hard being away from you and Dulce and everyone else. But, I feel like I have to do this. I need to do this. 

For us. 

But mostly for me. 

I want to get better.

Please let me.

Te quiero mucho,

Solana

BTW, I’m saying ‘I love you very much’ in Spanish. 

Because I do. 

I love you, Ro.

And I don’t need you to say it back or feel the same. With what you’ve been through, I’d never expect or ask that of you.

I just need you. Your continued support. That’s all. That’s enough.

With all my love,

Solana

________

“I’m so sick of your bloody fuckin’ shit, Seth! It’s the same fuckin’ thing over and over again, and I’m done!” 

The cadence, melody, and even tone of his wife’s rant serves as the perfect resources for Seth who is lazily sprawled out across their sofa, beer in one hand, the other hand moving as if conducting an orchestra. 

And he is.

Because this has become a song and dance with his fiery tempered, Irish wife.

Seconds later, she’s practically stomping in the living room, their daughter in hand who is most definitely old enough to remember this little spat. He cackles to himself. How unfortunate.

However, Becky’s enraged gaze is focused on him, disgust plastered all over. “Were you even listenin’ to me?”

He makes a sound, unbothered eyes falling on her, that infamous smile growing. “Of course, dear.”

Becky, however, knows better. Has been with this man long enough to know better. And she’s done. “Ya know, I thought you were getting better, yeah? But then that bloke Breaker comes over here looking for you, and I—” Becky cuts herself off, refusing to start yelling with her daughter in her arms. Her accent is even thicker, as she shares while adjusting the bag on her other shoulder, “I’m gonna go stay with Charlotte til’ I can figure out just what I’m gonna do.”

What she’s not saying is that she’ll stay with her closest American friend until she can find the funds and resources to move back home. 

She’s just done.

Seth, however, seems unconcerned by the fact that she’s leaving with their kid. “Okay, dear.” He snorts, falling into that all too familiar maniacal laugh. The one that typically accompanies the reckless and dangerous behavior that has her packed and ready to go. It was one thing when it was just the two of them, but with a child now, Becky has a responsibility to keep her daughter safe.

And there is nothing safe about her husband rekindling ties with the Nightmare Factory.

Not wanting him to see the pending tears, Becky kisses her daughter’s cheek and heads for the door, not allowing herself to hesitate as she rips it open only for her jaw to drop.

She scoffs. Unbelievable. With even more support for her decision to leave, Becky looks over her shoulder at her husband who climbs to his feet. “First the Nightmare Factory, and now the fuckin’ Bloodline?” She shakes her head. “Yeah, you dig your own fuckin’ grave, Seth.” 

And with that, she moves past the figures, determined to not look back this time.

Meanwhile, a massive smile grows on Seth’s unshaven face, delight dancing in his dark eyes.

This is certainly proving to be such an eventful day. 

He practically stumbles over but manages to stand firm as he takes a swig of his beer, burping loudly and then asking with all of the excitement, evil smile on his face.

“How can I help you?”

[tonightsyanderes]

Yandere Beastman

•Tiger Beastman•

TW: death(not reader), non-con, stalking, I am basing this off of the actual mating habits of a tiger. blood. injury to reader.

Don't like it or if these trigger you please don't read and take care of your mental health. I do NOT support or want anyone in this kind of relationship they are highly toxic and unsafe. I write the stories for entertainment purposes only.

There are not a lot of "Yandere tendencies" in this fic. Just a lot of fucked up stuff.....

Please Enjoy~

The hectic life you had before would be calm compared to the life you have now. Trying to keep yourself level-headed while the world changes around you is hard and mentally draining.

‘Note to self never trust someone that promises it’s a time machine that you’re stepping into. Even if they are… were your best friend.’ You mumble to yourself bitterly about how unfair it was to be stuck somewhere or when with nothing to help you. You heard a rustling of leaves behind you. The wind blew green leaves in your face as the rustling got louder.

You could hear the thud of hooves drawing closer to you. You quickly wiped your face clean and moved behind a tree to hide from whatever was coming. Heartbeat ringing in your ears you try to calm down by breathing in through your nose and out of your mouth. You try not to hold your breath until it gets closer. The thudding grew louder, shaking the ground. A figure ran past you, too quick to see what it was. Two more things ran by the tree you hid behind, you covered your mouth with your hand to muffle your breathing. One of them had antlers… with ears like a deer. Their legs were like a deer too… and with hooves! Where the hell are you?!?

You heard a deep growl in front of the tree. A shrill scream followed by a loud crunch was mere feet from you. Your body couldn’t move. You tried to back away, tried to uncover your mouth, tried anything! But your body refused to listen… The crunching sound was like breaking celery, a crisp crack/crunch. It stopped and you could hear the chewing of something wet and tough. One of those things must have been caught. Whatever caught it could find you too… would it eat you too? You could imagine the way it would tear into you, it would eat you alive. It ate whatever that thing was alive so you could only imagine what you would see as it tears into your stomach as the life drained away from you. The last thing you would remember would be that horrifying scene.

‘I need to get out of here… quietly’ You looked around trying to make less noise than the eating sounds. You tried to turn around when the wind picked up again. Except this time you were upwind from the beast. The sound stopped… not just the eating sounds, all the sounds around you… the birds let long ago, the wind stopped whistling, the river stopped bubbling, and the far-off thudding of hooves was no longer heard. The beating of your heart quicked, it hurt your chest. The chest that you were sure would be ripped open in mere seconds. 

Another growl and you couldn't move again. ‘Not this shit again! I need out of here!!’ Your eyes were restless and you looked around wildly. You can’t hear the soft thuds headed to the tree you hid behind. The way the beast made slow, calculating movements was a sign that it was an apex predator. Nothing scared it. A claw of a tiger stepped out from the other side. It was massive, about the size of your head. You imagined it slicing through your stomach. 

Its head followed soon after, traces of its meal all over its face. It looks almost… human. It, no He turned towards you, and you backed away as his whole body came into view. His face and torso were more human but the rest was like a tiger. His arms and legs were tiger limbs. He had an orange and black tail. Tiger ears on top of his head. He had no clothes on. Blood was caked on him everywhere. The fur on his body became clumped together and dyed red. He continued to growl at you. His teeth were long and the tips were sharp. You backed away from him as much as you could. He glared at you and stepped closer. 

“Get back! I taste bad I promise!” You shout out of fear. In your right mind, you would not be saying something like that. He stopped growling and stayed still. Just looking at you, it was worse than him moving. Staying still made him unpredictable. You crawled away quickly. He didn’t move just stared at you. You stood up slowly and continued to walk backward until you had a few trees between you and him. You sprinted away from the area and towards the sound of the river. 

 You made a small shelter out of fallen branches that leaned against a tree. The river is a small walk from the shelter, fishing got easier with time and practice. You had no idea how to start a fire without a lighter so you go cold most nights. You have seen a few… bloody leftovers of other beasts that left you berries or other foods around your little camp. 

You were trying to catch some fish with your makeshift net. A long-sleeved t-shirt with a stick in the shape of a Y can only do so much. You were so busy focusing on fishing that you didn’t hear the noises behind you. Suddenly you were pushed face-first into the ground. A growl from whatever was holding you made you freeze. It sounded so familiar… so overly terrifying. 

This was it you are going to die… you’re going to be eaten alive by that man-beast thing! A bite on the back of your neck sent pain down your spine. A scream erupted from your mouth as you kicked and grabbed at it from behind you. You heard a chuckle behind you. The claws on the massive paws tore through your clothes with ease. The teeth on the back of your neck never let up. Something wet, slime-y, and hard was pressed into your thighs. He used one hand to bring your hips up, the claws dug into your skin and drew blood. His penis was barbed on one side and painful when he entered you with no preparation. Another scream erupted from you, you tried to fight back even more. Nothing worked as he kept going until he filled you to the brim with his cum. You cried until you passed out, you’d rather be asleep when you die than awake. 

You woke up in a den with the tiger beast beside you. A dead deer beast was in front of him, he was already eating it. You whimpered and he looked over at you. He tore off a leg and tried to hand it to you. You gagged as the limb dripped blood all over the ground. He huffed and walked over to you wagging it in your face. You shook your head and started to kick at him when he came too close. He smirked and showed off his phallus it was hard and pink. 

“No! Not again! Fuck you!” You shouted as he got even closer not bothered by your attempts to hurt him. He opened his mouth his teeth on full display.

“Again! You!” He mimicked your voice almost perfectly. ‘What the hell… how the fuck…’ You couldn’t believe this…

“Mine… mate… season… you fight… you mate now.” He said in broken words. “Kill… others… need… me not… them.” He growled as he walked towards you. Your vision goes black as you pass out from fear. ‘Will I see the light of day again?...’

[chimivx]

public occurrences. // myg.

pairing: Idol!Yoongi x Female!Reader

summary: It's been almost a year since Vegas. As one would expect, life hasn't gotten any easier. If anything it's gotten even more chaotic. The world knows who you are now... There aren't anymore secrets to hide.

words: 6k

warnings: SLIGHT SPOILERS IN THE WARNINGS. use of cuss words, they talk of anxiety, some mental health situations, talks about a miscarriage, talks about Jin and other members leaving. other than that- not much else. If I missed anything PLEASE let me know.

a/n: CAN'T BELIEVE ANOTHER VEGAS IS HERE. Enjoy my loves. Thank you for all the love and support always. <3 It's just a short little drabble of one specific moment of time, but I thought it was pretty important.

~ the end of february 2023 ~

A dull pain begins to erupt where you’ve had your jaw clenched for the last twenty minutes. A soreness in your jaw you’re not quite sure will ever be able to go away. For the past few months it’s found itself in this compromised position.

Your entire body is made of steel, your joints creaking as you attempt to pull yourself together amidst the panic ensuing within your nervous system. Limbs heavy to the point you aren’t sure whether or not you’ll be able to exit the vehicle.

Breathe in, breathe out. The words repeat.

Breath in, breathe out. It made you want to sing Hobi’s song. Inhale, inhale, exhale, exhaaale. But there was no time for fun. Not when you were about to walk outside in front of cameras for the first time in eight years.

The morning was spent in a blur, the attempts to perfect your hair and makeup happening at an hour too early, much like how you rolled out of bed. An hour too early. You were awake before your daughter even had the chance to stir.

Anxiety had been simmering beneath your skin for weeks. You could barely eat, the nausea would rip through you violently. Again, for the past few months that’s how life has been, nausea, anxiety, melancholy thoughts and dreams, however this event seemed to be adding twice as much. These past few days you’ve probably accumulated a total of nine hours of sleep. You had more shuteye the week after your daughter's birth.

There seemed to be a butterfly effect from the events in Vegas. The incident that caused countless meetings and endless discussions because the company just couldn’t handle anymore media control or protection. You should never have trusted that girl.

BigHit took their time, the company drug out the announcement as long as they could so it would surpass Jin’s deployment and your goddamn wedding. Now, with it being the end of February, Yoongi’s been traveling absolutely everywhere for basketball games, photoshoots, and he’s announced a tour… It was about to happen. For the very first time in eight years you were officially about to be on camera, branded by flashes, posted online permanently, forever going to be seen and known as Min Yoongi’s wife.

Next to you, Yoongi grips your knee tight, in hopes to settle your worries. Glancing down to his knobby hand you sigh and suck in a deep breath.

“We’ll be fine,” he said softly. Meeting his comforting gaze, you attempt to smile, one that makes him laugh. “I promise. Remember everything we talked about?”

You do. Of course you do. It’s been playing on repeat for one hundred and sixty eight hours. 

That’s how many hours are in a week. You had to google that.

When this entire plan was set in place you requested a play by play, a step by step tutorial- a rehearsal even! You were walking out into the public eye with your child for the first time. People knew who you were now. 

There were going to be cameras, and fans, and paparazzi, and loud noises, and people rushing you, and standards to follow. It was all too much, it all seemed to be entirely too much. You were going to have a toddler on your hip, one who could barely stand to be in a room full of people her father worked with let alone god knows how many strangers at an airport.

“What happens first?” Yoongi asked, reaching for one of your hands to tangle his fingers with yours. He could feel your panic. “Tell me the first thing we’re going to do.”

Gulping, you respond, “Park.” Looking up at his short hair that you’re livid with- his long hair was dreamy, and sexy, and you could pull it- you receive another laugh. He hadn’t expected you to be so literal.

“Good, we’ll park,” he praised. “And then what?” Tipping his chin down his eyes widened a bit, becoming all the more endearing.

“Then, Branson and his team get out,” you said, feeling a bit better looking into his eyes. Yoongi gives you a soft smile, dragging his thumb over the back of your hand.

“Has Branson ever let you down?”

“Never,” you whispered. Almost nine incident free years with the man, after Yoongi, you depended on. 

Your husband leans in to press a kiss to your forehead. “Exactly,” he said. “What happens next?”

Going through the last three simple steps, everything seemed ready to go to plan. Once Branson was ready, you were going to take your daughter out of her carseat, exit the car, and follow the men inside. You would be the one to carry your daughter, just in case. People were unpredictable in these situations, and Yoongi agreed that if something were to happen to him here, you should be the one to carry her inside. As much as that little comment terrified you to hear him say, he was right.

Simple as pie. You hoped.

In a perfect world that’s how it would happen, and you want nothing more than for this to go smoothly.

People knew your name. Everyone has found out that it’s been years. The company was prepared for mass destruction, and so were you and Yoongi. A first public appearance, this is where it would all go to shit. There isn’t much chaos people can fully ensue over the internet.

As for your friends, the two of you personally asked them to stay out of it and at the drop of a hat they agreed. The five boys and Sunny shook on it. No one would say a word publicly, no one would do any interviews, no tweets, no Instagram posts, no stories pushed, no Weverse comments. Silence. Radio silence.

Jin has most definitely heard what has happened, and the next time you and Yoongi get to see him, there will be tea to spill. Your heart aches whenever you think about him, especially for Yoongi. He’s had to go through this madness and so much more without his best friend.

The week after he left was complete and utter hell for your family. And not just because of Jin.

Pushing aside all thoughts of having to redo the motions with Hobi very soon, you come to realize that steps one and two of the plan have already commenced.

The black SUV was parked in front of the airport, and Branson and his team were setting themselves up. Through the dark tinted windows there are crowds upon crowds of people, masses of them so large one would think the entire band was here. It reminded you of a concert, they were all waiting in groups with their phones out, pointing them at the vehicles that you and your team were in.

Slapping your hand on top of Yoongi's, you grip it tight, digging your nails into his palm. He places his other right on top of yours.

“I can’t do it,” you mumbled, whipping your head to shoot him a terrified look.

Yoongi smiles, though your fear threatens to crack him. If this wasn’t ordered by the company he’d whisk you away to safety, getting inside the airport without a soul knowing. He’s broken these rules before, going against what his company wants for your sake, it’s been eight years of you coming first, you topping all things that have to do with his job. 

Now that the gig was up, now that people knew who you were and knew that it’s been forever, he feels as though he owes it to his fans to do a three minute appearance. As much as he was deeply in love with you, he loved his fans almost as much. He wanted to show you off, he wanted the world to see who’s been keeping him sane all this time, who’s been the source of his happiness for years.

“Yanno, the last time you told me that you seemed to handle everything just fine,” he said, glancing at your sleeping daughter beside you. Blowing a gust of air through your lips, you roll your eyes.

“I didn’t have to do any work, D, they cut her out of me,” you grilled back, narrowing your eyes. “I can’t-” your words are cut off by a sudden short breath. “I feel like I can’t breathe,” escapes you in a whisper. 

Branson taps his fist on the window a couple of times gently, signaling that he was ready for the three of you to come out. The murmurs from the crowds can be heard, leaking through the cracks in the doors, swarming around you constricting your chest.

Yoongi slips an arm around your back, holding you against him tight. Burying your face into his chest, he rests his chin on top of your head and takes a deep breath. You can feel his beating heart steady between his lungs. This was just another day for him. He’s had ten years to grow used to this.

“I was afraid this was going to happen,” he said softly. Peeking up at him, you frown.

“What?” you question, lowering your brows. He nods a couple of times, giving you a small smile.

“I was afraid this was going to happen, because I knew this was going to happen,” he said.

“Me freaking out, right?” you sighed, your tone completely breathless. A soft hum leaves his chest as he ponders what you’ve said, then he shakes his head. “What?” you question again with more vigor.

“Well,” he huffs a gentle laugh, “I figured something along the lines of that would happen, but only ‘cause of her,” he nods to your daughter, “Not because you’re scared of going out there. You’re only worried for her. If it were seven years ago you think you’d feel this way?”

Shaking your head to answer him, the electricity coursing through your veins seems to subside.

“Exactly,” he smirked. “Before her you were dancing in the streets before my shows, you were talking to people, my fans! You were prancing around stadiums and concerts like it was nothing.”

“I loved doing that,” you smiled. 

“Fuck yeah, you loved doing that,” he said, giving you the smallest shake. “And, you know what? It’s not just you going out there as my wife, right? They know what you’ve done for us, they know what you’ve made for us.”

Your smile starts to grow. He was right. The fans, the people, they loved your work. The music videos, the art, the TinyTan, the creative concepts, the photoshoots, all of it. They finally knew that it was you. The ghost creator had been unveiled.

“You probably have fans of your own,” Yoongi said matter of factly. “I guarantee you all these people are here for you, not me.” Frowning humorously, you make him laugh.

“Doubt that,” you said flatly.

“Alright, half and half,” he winked, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “We can do this, you can do this. We’re doing it together, like we do everything. We’ll get through this together. We always do. Just think, next time we see Jin we have to tell him all about this, he’ll never believe it.” 

Averting your eyes from his, your mind is suffocated by the many, many things you’re going to have to tell Jin when you’re with him again, which you’re hoping is soon. So much has happened, so much has changed, and it’d only been about three months.

“Yeah,” you whispered, flickering your eyes up to Yoongi who’s flashing you a curious look. “He probably still thinks I’m pregnant.”

A flash of discomfort wrecks his expression for all of two seconds as he glances away from you with a breath. Swallowing hard, he relaxes his face and looks back at you, his lips pressed together tight.

“He, uh,” he began in a whisper, “He... knows.” Before you have a chance to say anything, the subtle shock on your face telling him plenty, he cuts you off. “I’m sorry, baby. I had to tell him, it’s Jin, that’s my best friend, he’s the only one I could even say the words to.”

Sitting up a bit, you reach a hand up to cup his cheek, dragging your thumb over his smooth skin. “D, it’s okay,” you reassured him, bobbing your head. His lips form a pout, one that gets you to giggle. “I promise, it’s okay.”

There’s a moment of quiet between the two of you, feelings swirling around the empty air as you both choose what to do or say next. Yoongi leans into you, kissing your forehead once more before placing his own there.

“You’re so incredible,” he said, watching you flutter your eyes shut. “The strongest woman I know, the most talented woman I know. On top of having such a beautiful, creative mind, you’re a fucking fantastic mother.” Yoongi pauses, taking a deep breath, as do you. “He was lucky to have you for as long as he did.”

A lump lodges in your throat. Scrunching your face, you shake your head, rubbing your forehead to his.

“Don’t make me cry,” you said, voice wavering with uncertainty. 

“Cry?” a tiny voice speaks up from your right, a yawn of the same intensity coming out of her straight after. Popping your eyes open you share a small smile with your husband, and just as you’re about to turn to your little one, Yoongi slips a hand beneath your chin, holding you in place.

“Hey,” his voice is soothing. “I love you.” Your heart flutters.

“I love you, too,” you whispered, accepting the quick kiss he gives you.

Turning to the carseat that has secured a permanent spot in this car, you smile at your daughter who has her head turned toward you and her father. Her sleepy eyes entice a happy hum from you.

“You were supposed to sleep through this,” you said sarcastically sweet. Yoongi chuckles, unbuckling from his seat. The clang of the metal on the door makes your heart skip a beat.

“No,” your daughter said. “No sleep. All done.” Her voice is tiny, and slightly broken, and not hitting all of the right sounds, but her speech has only been improving. The two of you speak to her like she’s a human being, saving the baby voices for when she’s feeling silly, which can attest to her strong vocabulary and understanding of conversation.

You’re beginning to think she is a genius like her father.

“Mama, up,” she cooed, reaching out her arms that were finally starting to get a little chubby. Her cheeks had caught up to her as well, they were finally perfectly pinchable.

Freeing her from the car seats restraints, your daughter aids you in her escape, launching herself forward and up into your arms with a shout.

“Oh!” she giggles once her arms are around your neck and her face is buried in your hair. 

“Oh!” you and Yoongi copy her, to which she responds with another shout.

Her attentive eyes point out the window when she sits herself up, tapping on your shoulder a couple of times with her palm. Lifting a hand, she tries to point at the crowds of people.

“Where?” she asked curiously, looking to either of her parents for an answer. Her voice turned you into a complete puddle, the sound coming out as ‘Wheh?’, the middle syllable is even more pronounced when she questions the two of you again.

Yoongi brings a hand to her forehead, brushing away a few dark hairs that fell into her eyes. The girl hated bows, you stopped trying.

 “We’re at the airport,” he told her, and she listened with all of her might. “We’re going on a plane, isn’t that fun? You like flying.” Her eyes blink a few times, taking her time to process the words. 

Sighing aloud, dramatically of course, she glances out the window and mumbles a jumble of sounds. Following her gaze, you gulp. 

Eager eyes of bystanders attempted to shatter the glass of the tinted windows.

“Mama,” your daughter said, looking at you. “Go, Mama,” she bounced once. “Go,” she bounced twice. You knew the moment you stepped out into the noise and the flashing lights that she would have a meltdown, but you admired her desire to get out of the car. Yoongi was right, she loved flying, it was her second favorite thing right now. Securely at number one was Jungkook, for a year and seven months. That spot was unattainable for anyone else.

“Shall we?” Yoongi offered, watching you fiercely, letting you take the lead. He waited patiently for your answer, heaving a sigh of relief when you finally gave him a tentative nod of your head.

“Dada, go,” your daughter babbled. “Mama, go. Dada, go. Mama, go.”

Sharing a laugh with Yoongi, you take a long deep breath and tighten your grip around her back, holding her in front of your chest. Smiling at you, your baby touched a hand to your cheek.

“I love you,” you whispered to her. She leans her head toward you and puts her nose on yours.

“Ah-luh-oo,” she tried her best to repeat. Stealing a kiss from her, you let Yoongi press a thousand to her cheek to make her giggle, and then it’s time.

Everything seems to move in slow motion, your vision tunneling as your husband opens the car door. Pulling a mask over his face, he sends you a reassuring wink before he rounds the vehicle.

Screams erupt from every corner of the space, and shouting from the team can already be heard. Strict shouting, like things were getting crazy already. Your daughter’s eyes are wide as she looks out the windows and up at you. Her curiosity has been swapped for a little bit of fear. 

You couldn’t let her see you panic.

Sliding off of the leather seat and onto the concrete of the airport lot, you pull a mask over your own face and instantly slip a hand to the back of your baby's head. Her legs were wrapped around your torso, and the moment you stepped outside her arms clung around your neck for safety. You already had a suspicion that you weren’t going to have to actively try to hide her face, she would want to do that herself.

Your bags were already taken care of, there wasn’t anything else you needed to grab from the car other than your child and yourself. Everything else would be taken care of for you.

With another deep, dramatic breath, you hold your daughter close, allowing her to bury her face into your neck, and you circle the car like Yoongi had. Upon rounding the back, cameras that were already flashing began to flash faster, quicker. Wide eyed and stunned by the greeting of screams, you barely have time to process anything before Branson grabs your arm. 

It’s a gentle tug, one to help keep you on track. He pulls you close to him, staying one step ahead of you as you wait for a couple of seconds in front of the car. Glancing amongst the crowd, it’s mainly full of paparazzi and probably some journalists. Behind the tall men and their cameras you can see the fans, the ones holding up their phones and jumping up and down trying to catch a glimpse at the commotion.

Airport security guards held some people back, though no one seemed to be trying to push through excessively, which was your main fear. 

“Another minute here,” Branson said to you, leaning into your ear. “They need photos, then we go.” Nodding, you peek down at your girl who was content clinging to her mother and hiding from the chaos. A sound of admiration rips through the crowd as you stroke her back, one that surprises you.

Up ahead, close to the doors, Yoongi was walking backward slowly, watching you. His fans twisted their heads side to side, from him, to you, and back again. To spice things up a bit, he gives you a wave, and everyone goes nuts.

You can’t help but laugh at him, eyes crinkling at the sides. For some reason you had thought he’d treat you differently when you were outside, but aside from following the rules, he was still your husband. He points to the baby on your chest and questions you with a thumbs up. Another giant ‘Awh!’ rolls through the chattering crowd.

Sending a thumbs up back, the fans laugh, and cheer. Then, your heart plummets to your stomach.

From somewhere within the crowd your name is shouted. And then again. Before you knew it, the entire crowd wanted your attention. Overwhelmed, feeling utterly insane, your eyes well up with tears. You're unable to make out anything else they’re saying though, there were too many people talking at once, and to you, that was a good thing.

God forbid anybody had anything bad to say. You’ve heard it before, but you don’t need to live it in real time.

“Holy shit,” you mumbled. Branson leans into you again, questioning what you’ve said. Turning to him, you smile and repeat, “Holy shit!” 

“You’re okay?” he asked, gently putting a hand over your shoulder blade. 

“I- I think so?” you said to him, raising your voice over the crowd that was only getting louder. Glancing down to your daughter who’s little fists were attempting to rip holes in your sweater, you send a look to Yoongi, and he stops walking all together. Bundled up in the safety of her mothers arms wasn’t enough for the baby, she needed to be out of this situation immediately. “Branson we have to go.”

“I don’t have the signal yet, we need Yoongi inside before we move forward,” he said. Frowning, you knew the man was just doing his job, but a cry from your daughter flipped a switch within you.

“We need to go,” you insisted, shooting him a glare. Cradling the back of her head, you press your masked lips to her hair and take a deep breath, hoping she’d feel as much of your love as possible. 

“Go! Get him inside,” Branson spoke into the tiny walkie he carried on his chest, gesturing toward the door with persistence. 

The crowd, now roaring, and growing larger, began to push. The barriers that were blocked by guards were spilling over the edge.

Branson placed a hand to the top of your shoulder and held onto you tight. Grabbing the little speaker, he spoke clearer. “We need to move forward, and we cannot do that if you cannot get him indoors.”

Up ahead your husband was watching you with a heated gaze. His attention didn’t deter from you once. His heart twisted when you cradled your daughter, when he saw Branson begin to get defensive. The hand that was placed protectively on your shoulder could make him scream, and the team behind him, calling after him to get him to step inside the airport made his thoughts fuzzy.

What the hell was he doing? Why would he ever allow the two of you, the most important people in his life, why would he allow you to do it alone? This was the very first time you’ve done this, and he’s realized now that he’s made the biggest mistake.

Forgetting everything he was told, everything he’s learned, Yoongi bounds toward you, using the fast paced walk that his fans clown him for. They absolutely lose their minds, the people around you. 

Wide eyed and shocked, you’d never think he’d break the rules on this one, you sigh in relief when he reaches your side. An arm wraps around your shoulder, Yoongi closing you in front of his chest.

“What are you doing?” you asked, giving your head a small shake.

Your husband smiles, reaching up to pull his mask off of his face, removing yours as well.

“Not letting you do it alone,” he said to you, leaning in to press a kiss to your lips. As you could’ve guessed, the collective lost their minds. 

“You’re gonna get in trouble,” you smiled up at him, laughing as he dramatically rolled his eyes.

“You two are always worth it,” he said. “Now, c’mon,” he stepped aside to hold you behind your back, keeping you tucked beneath his arm. Using his other hand he rubbed the baby’s back and gave her cheek a quick kiss, happy to find that once he joined you two she had calmed down. “Let’s go see Kookie.”

Her head shot right up with enormous dark eyes full of stars. “Koo-hee?!”

“Koo-hee!” Both you and Yoongi copy her tiny voice, making her giggle with the silly smiles you flash at her.

The world around you seemed to melt away the second you were in your husband's arms, like all of a sudden you had the strength to handle anything the world would have thrown at you. His grip around your body as he walked with you into the airport was enough to silence the crowd, and power your legs to get through the doors without an incident.

A mere twenty minutes later, the three of you were seated on the plane, your daughter snoozing soundly on her fathers chest while you scrolled through your phone, curious to see what the internet has had to say of your appearance already. Resting his head on your shoulder, Yoongi followed along, making a sweet comment at every single photo of you.

“Oh, that one is the best,” he said quietly, your Twitter scroll stopping on a picture of the three of you before you walked off. The big, genuine, happy smiles you and Yoongi wore were priceless as you grinned at your baby girl, one whose face didn’t make it into any photos- thank the good Lord that somebody believes in. “You should post that one.”

Giving him a sideways glance, you huff a gentle laugh. “To my Instagram? It’s just gone public, you want me to blow it up even more?”

Yoongi tips his chin up, flashing you pouty puppy dog eyes. “I just want them all to know you’re mine. Both of you. I want everyone to know I’m yours, and I always have been.” You gave his forehead a kiss.

“Okay,” you nodded, “I’ll post it. Her face isn’t in any of these, so I can post as many as I want.”

Settling comfortably on your shoulder once again, Yoongi gave you caption advice for the post- an emoji that seemingly had nothing to do with the photo… But, you used it anyway. The angel emoji, with a halo and little wings.

“That one’s perfect,” he whispered, tapping on it for you.

“If you say so,” you smiled. Yoongi sat up a bit, carefully to not disturb his sleeping daughter. “You always pick the random ones.”

“Every single one I use means something,” Yoongi gazed at you fiercely. “That little guy,” he pointed to the angel, “That makes four of us.”

Your lips parted in surprise, unsure of what to say. That week in December devastated you both. Your stomach flips while you watch him study your face. The whirlwind life you live hasn’t given either of you proper time to process, or grieve.

“Baby,” he whispered, closing the space between you to touch his forehead to yours. “You don’t have to post it if you don’t want to.”

Sucking in a deep breath, your eyes welling with tears, you furrow your brows. “What did I do wrong,” escaped you in an exasperated gust of air. Yoongi shifted, wrapping an arm around your back. 

“No,” he said, putting on his strong facade. “We don’t do that, we’ve talked about this. You know there wasn’t anything you did wrong. There wasn’t anything I did wrong. You heard the doctor say it, baby, multiple times. You gave him the perfect home, you’re healthy.” Yoongi paused to gauge where you were, praying that you were listening to him.

You respond after a few seconds, bobbing your head. Taking a deep breath, Yoongi swallows down the lump in his throat.

“It just wasn’t his time,” he whispered. “He wasn’t ready.”

“Yeah,” you whispered fast. Yoongi’s thumb found your cheek, wiping away the tears that had fallen.

“And, you remember the last time we were there, they said we could try again whenever we were ready,” he said. The end of last month you had a check-up with your doctor, just to make sure things were back to normal, and that your body was holding up alright. Your second pregnancy was a surprise, much like the first, you and Yoongi haven’t seemed to learn your lesson. However, losing your son before you had even gotten the chance to hold him in your arms put a lot of things into perspective for the two of you.

There were routine check-ups, you were eating better- both of you! This second child was something that you and your husband both wanted, and though each of your emotions have been through the wringer… You would be willing to try again when you felt like you could handle it.

“I want to,” you whispered. Yoongi smiled, but you could see his own worries within it. “I know, I feel the same way.”

“Together,” he cuts off the nervousness quickly. “We’ll do it together.”

“Uh, we kinda have to,” you giggled, making him laugh.

“I can’t wait,” he sing-songed through clenched teeth with a grin, stealing a kiss from you. Yoongi backs away from you to check on your sleeping daughter who hasn’t made a peep. He was surprised she had let her eyes shut while she was beside the window, normally she’d be gazing out at the clouds passing by.

Picking your phone up off of your lap, you smile at the angel emoji and click post, letting the notifications flood in like wildfire. This was all brand new. You were allowed to make your Instagram public about a week ago, and since then you’ve reached four million followers, while you used to have forty-six. Silencing the notifications from the app, every photo you’ve ever posted amassed an incredible amount of likes. Your feed was a feast, and the public was hungry. 

Four million followers and counting. The number was only going to get bigger.

Watching the photo gain twenty thousand likes whenever you refreshed the page, you nudged Yoongi’s shoulder to show him what was happening, and when he turned his head to look, an unknown number you’ve never seen before popped onto your screen, calling you.

“What the…” you mumbled, narrowing your eyes.

Yoongi snatched the phone from your hand and quickly snapped a photo of the screen with his own, then he silenced yours and went into it, blocking the number who tried to reach you. He called Branson over and showed him the photo, letting the head of security take his phone with him.

“Trace this, or, do something. Tell me who's number this is,” his voice is stern, on alert.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” you said, laying your head down on his shoulder. “People get scam calls all the time.”

“Not us,” he said, tone flat.

Not even ten minutes passed before Branson came back, kneeling on the row of chairs in front of your family. He placed his elbows on the head rests and took a deep breath, darting his eyes back and forth from Yoongi to yours.

“Well?” Yoongi asked. Branson handed him his phone and frowned.

“Uh,” he stumbled over a few words, unsure of how to say what he needed to say. “We, um… The phone number belongs to your mother.” His voice is hushed, quiet, like he was afraid to tell you, when in actuality he was afraid to tell Yoongi. Touchy subject. Especially now.

There had been a restraining order set in place since the day after your daughter's first birthday. Yoongi held the meetings and took care of everything, all you had to do was sign. 

Neither one of your parents were allowed to contact you, speak to you or your daughter, or try to see you in person. They were not allowed to mail anything to you, send anyone to see you in place of themselves, nor were they allowed to be in touch with anyone close to you. Sunny included. You had to make a list.

Expecting him to jump out of his seat, you stretch a hand over his lap and grab his other hand, the one on your daughter's back. Sitting up, you turn toward him ever so slightly to catch a glimpse of his expression. It had not faltered. He was stone faced, and you were sick to your stomach.

“Sue her,” he said. Turning to you, he sighed. “We’re changing your number again.”

“D, come on, it’s not like-”

“I don’t care,” he said, peering down to admire his daughter. “She clearly hasn’t gotten the message that you don’t want anything to do with her.” He pointed his focus back to Branson. “Fight it. Do what you can.”

“Got it,” the guard said, and whisked himself away.

It’s quiet for a moment before Yoongi said, “Why are you defending her?”

“I’m not defending her,” you said, and he raised a brow, giving you a funny look. “It’s just… Super annoying to give everyone a new phone number for the third time.” Both your lips turn up into a smile. “Sue the bitch, I don’t care, D.” Yoongi laughs. “Just don’t make me change my number again, I beg of you.”

“Alright,” he said. “No new number. BUT!” His raised volume made your daughter stir. “One more thing happens, you’re changing it.” The little one lifted her head, blinking a few times before she grinned at her father.

“Fine,” you whispered, not that he was paying attention anymore anyway. Your daughter took his full focus, and all of his kisses. 

It seemed silly to just now realize that today was something of a confirmation of the last eight years. Living your life, being a secret to millions of others, while you and the people you cared most about knew, was nice, and secure, and peaceful. But, now… Now that everyone knew, the peace grew. It swallowed you whole, engulfing you and your family with stability and ease.

No more accidental reveals. No more false stories. No more rumors the company had to shut down. No more hiding.

You were absolutely free, and for now, that was everything.

thank you for reading, I hope you’ve enjoyed this piece! 

feedback is always greatly appreciated & helps artists immensely. we also all love messages & the audience’s input, opinions, and ideas.

leave me some here! <3

support my art here! <3

vegas tags <3 (i realize on the last post i missed some of you, i'm so sorry.) <3

@jewelrnicorn @yoongisducky @all-american-fangirl @funkylittlebisexuall @ahewlett @damn-u-min-yoongi @my-dark-happy-place

[ladydeath-vanserra]

SJM + Eugenics + Ableism in her Writing

thinking about how insidious eugenics can come up in writing- specifically SJMs writing. Personally I take a lot with a grain of salt bec I don't think a lot of ppl realize how fucking deeply entrenched and rooted it is in everything and more often than not its not intentional

and to an extent I don't think it was intentional by SJM. she does have a degree of plausible deniability in her story telling

however that being said:

the Cauldron "pairing mates" has allusions to being a breeding program of some kind of supernatural predestined idiocy. Sam + Melissa on Tiktok have some pretty great videos on it

However, while they think that SJM is providing commentary on the matter, I do have a different view, not that I really disagree with what they're saying

SJM has a track record of using disabilities as an aesthetic for her characters. It's often a point of suffering and/or there ends up being a magical fix (yay fantasy eugenics providing miracle cures!!! /sarcasm)

Chaol, severely injured with a spinal cord injury that left him paralyzed goes to the super special healing place to have the world's bestest healers where the magical healing trope + black girl magic collide. He spends the whole book, a duration of only six months, regaining the ability to walk, with a cane most days. Chaol spends a large part of the book feeling sorry for himself and immasculting himself. Yerene, a professional trained healer who helps him with PT snaps at him in frustration to "just get up" when he's being difficult with her Note: some of these detailed may be incorrectly remembered + I never finished the book bec I can't stand him

Lucien: he gets his eye ripped out and is literally blinded but now he has a magical eye that is even better and can sense magic and spells and all that good shit

Rhys: chronic pain; never addressed

Azriel: scarred hands and wings, but so far we've seen no real struggle or accommodation of any kind or even a real discussion on how he had to learn how to fly at an older age due to his captivity and scarred wings

Cassian: his wings were beyond shredded but between books they got fixed up right as rain. it would have been fantastic rep for this decorated veteran and leader to be disabled, esp for a culture of warriors where flying is so crucial + where thr women are also forceably mutilated and can't fly either

speaking of the illyrian women

the Illyrian Women: not being able to fly and use their limbs is a disability. We have seen zero repercussions of Emeries father (and brother(?)) for disabling and mutilating his daughter

the mental health crisis of NESTA for ONE. in both the Fandom and in the series the grating toxic positivity and lack of patience and understanding and support and willingness to meet her halfway enraged me holy shit. The tone policing, the lack of autonomy, the unaddressed childhood trauma that has made Nesta the core of who she was. it was vile and disgusting

Aelin: quite frankly should have difficulty moving as fluidly as she does. she was whipped to ribbons and beaten bloody. Her back should be full of chronic pain and difficulty

Elide: as far as I'm aware Elide isn't too bad and she's incredibly intelligent and resourceful but it's been a hot minute since I've read the series. I do remember when they talked about it at the end about possibilities to heal her ankle (they couldn't)

I haven't read CC yet but I heard that LIMBS CAN GROW BACK???? sure let's just completely erase and magically fix imputations I guess?

I find it a lit harder to forgive "accidental eugenics" when her disabled characters disabilities are either made into Aesthetics, not properly addressed, or just healed all together

and when you pair magical eugenics + aesthetics:

You get Rhysand, the most powerful high lord of ever that you just have to keep being told is the most powerful high lord ever due to his parents being mates that his father whisked away from moments before she became mutilated like all the other Illyrian Women at 18 years old to a 900 year old man

you get his entire IC who is made of The Night Courts super special powerful clique who now happen to be the most powerful illyrian EVERRRR (Cassian + Azriel), Amren who was some trapped angel of death or something and Mor who is just so super powerful a mountain quaked or something when she was born

the entire IC is a concentrated powerhouse who also uses a specific mindset of "might is right"-

-and have forced others hands across the entire series or just outright lied and stole. also trespassing and routinely breaking laws but hey

Rowan, Aelin, Aedion, Dorian, Manon are all ToG Powerhouses. Rowan is described as the "most powerful full blooded fae male alive". there's an implication that human blood "weakens" fae traits and magical abilities [this is rather common in a lot of fantasy books]

every single character in this series is seen as some sort of extraordinary person with some sort of extraordinary power or ability aside from maybe a few. Hell Chaol, the only fully human character with no powers is the "Captian of the Guard" which he got bec he's a nepo baby from being Dorians friend. He gets disabled and they immediately go to get him fixed

tagging: @feynessupremacy @bookishfeylin @andramoreaux

I thought yall would appreciate

[olivyh]

What if one day Jamil got so tired of doing everything for Kalim that he wishes that he could have more time for himself? And then for the next few days, someone's already helped him finish his chores, schoolwork, and other tasks (i.e bringing stuff to the teachers, preparing food for banquets).

Jamil's confused. Who could've done this? It couldn't be Kalim. But it also couldn't have been his darling s/o, right? Sure, they bring him a bento and small gifts everyday but that's normal. Until one day while bringing him his fixed school uniform, Jamil hypnotizes a student and asks him who was helping him behind the shadows. Lo and behold, it was indeed his s/o all along. Now, Jamil is rushing over to Ramshackle, and what does he see? S/o cooking a delicious pot of curry that Jamil loves. Cue Jamil proposing to S/o on the spot.

A/N: Jamil nation is back!! Midterms are almost up, which means (hopefully) a little more productivity! I've been struggling with some mental health stuff recently, so my works aren't as polished as i'd like them to be ;;;;;;

Jamil practically collapses onto his bed, his limbs feeling as though they were being held down by weights and his eyelids drooping pathetically as he tries to muster any amount of strength to at least get cleaned up after his busy day. The man feels as though he's covered in a layer of sweat, grime, and grease from all the running around- from having to cook breakfast and lunch for Kalim, to chasing after Floyd during practice (with no time between the end of it due to the mer deciding to climb onto the net and effectively rip it off the hinges and a lengthy explanation to the nurse and his twin brother), to rushing across campus to grab groceries to preparing for another party followed by cleaning it off...

Jamil groans and sits up despite his body's pleas for him to rest. His muscles ache as he weakly pulls out the charms in his hair- albeit a little rougher than he would normally be. He hardly has the energy to take out the birds and place all the accessories on his bedside table, opting to simply slip out of his hoodie and pass out with a tanktop and the lower half of his dorm uniform. He falls onto his back, the tension in his shoulders unrelenting even as he tried to relax, a wave of frustration cascading over his mind and making his heart clench until it nearly aches. It's only a matter of time before his eyes unwillingly slip closed, sending him into a dreamless sleep.

The next morning, he awakes without the blare of his alarm. He gasps and shoots up, scrambling for his phone as he climbs out of bed (when did he get underneath the blankets?) and reaches for his hair accessories (did he put those away last night?). He hastily casts a quick spell, watching as the magic swirls and effortlessly braids his hair back in his usual style, the few loose strands picked up by the boy as he tucks them behind his ear. He tries to ignore the slight tremor in his hand as he attaches the charms, tossing on his (washed?) blazer.

Jamil Viper knew himself well, he knew what he could and could not do, he knew his limits, he knew and carefully planned his every action and event to the minute, careful to not leave any loose strings that could come back and bite him.

This continued through the next week- suddenly all of his chores were finished, coming back to the dorm exhausted and mentally preparing to deep clean the kitchen or the common room only to find that it had already been done. Kalim's clothes were folded as well (the heir had been confused as well, having been asleep in his room while his clothes were left in the laundry room). He even noticed that much of his homework was done (albeit sloppily around the edges) and he would come back after practice to see that the cupboards had been restocked with groceries for the next week.

Jamil felt as though his head was going to split, he tugged at the end of his hair and bit his lip as he attempted to study, mind racing with the possibilities. Could someone be trying to replace him? Trying to get closer to Kalim? Did they have it out for him? He swore that if Azul had anything to do with this he was going to corner that bastard and take his broken glasses as a reward-

"Jamil? I was told to take this to you-"

"Hm?" He looks up, only for his eyes to widen s he takes in his now repaired basketball uniform- torn from Floyd grabbing it too hard and effectively ripping it from the collar down the center. He was humiliated having to walk back to the dorm essentially wearing it as a vest rather than a jersey.

Feeling a surge of annoyance, finally at his breaking point, he stares the student down, eyes narrowing as he feels the familiar surge of magic through his veins, tingling from the crown of his head to the tips of his fingers.

"Who put you up to this?" He demands, taking a step closer to the hypnotized student. The blank red-film eyes stare back at him as the students' jaw hangs open uselessly.

"The Ramshackle Prefect," Jamil stops in his tracks, dropping his magic as he scrambles for the door, his bare feet slapping against the cold tile of the Scarabia as he rushes to the mirror.

He mentally berates himself- how could he be so blind? Jamil also feels a stab of pity that worms into his heart and makes him want to curl up. Had he unintentionally put that pressure on them? How could he not see the stress?

Looking back on it, he does remember how their movements were slowed, how their eyes held that slightly droopy look that he absolutely adored when they were laying beside each other in the late hours of the night, the way Grim glared at him when he stopped by their table for lunch (granted, the cat-like creature was prone to such childish actions, but he should have noticed how protective the monster got over the prefect).

The cold stone of the pathway to Main Street bites at his exposed feet, and he wishes he had bought his sandals to protect his feet. He trips over sticks, stubs his toes on rocks, and rushes through the bushes that cut through the forest on the way to the dorm. The chill of the air bites into his exposed skin as his lungs burn from running so far so quickly.

Once he finally arrives at the dorm, sweaty and out of breath, he catches a whiff of something that makes his heart pound even faster in his ribcage.

They were making his favorite food.

He swallows and raises a shaky hand to knock on the door. The sweat that had clung to his skin like a film began to chill in the night air, making him involuntarily shiver despite the warmth that blossomed in his stomach.

Jamil could barely catch their shocked expression to see him standing on their porch. He's sure he looks like a mess- his bangs clinging to his sweaty face, sweatshirt in disarray and basketball shorts exposing his legs despite the cold weather and, of course, his dirtied feet from the trek to the dorm. He envelopes them in a hug, ignoring their weak protests and complaints about getting sweat on them.

He backs away for a moment, cupping their face in his warm palms and gazing into their eyes as he takes in every feature- from the spice that had somehow ended on their cheek to the way their eyes crinkle when they smile at him.

He had practically lost control when he presses his lips to theirs, trying to convey all of his twisted feelings for them in one simple action- never enough, he'd believed. He could kiss them every second of every day and it would never amount to the amount of joy they gave him, the love he felt whenever he was in their presence. Every kiss was a different unspoken phrase, the words caught in his throat despite how slick he normally is with his prose.

'I need you' The kiss on their eyelid said.

'You're too kind' The peck on the tip of their nose.

'I want to keep you safe' The brush of his lips against their forehead.

'I don't deserve you' His lips ghosting over the soft curve of their cheek.

"Marry me," He mumbles, finally pressing a firm kiss to their lips once more.

They chuckle nervously as Jamil gasps softly, raising a hand to cover his mouth as he backs away, realizing that he had said the final one aloud.

They grip his hand and give him a once-over, sending him that warm smile that he wished he could hold all day and night- selfishly hoarding it and keeping it to himself.

"Wanna come in? I'm making dinner."

They don't have to ask him twice.

[cosmica-galaxy]

Idk what it is about me and giving the young player existential crises but i've got some more thoughts about that.

The air must suck absolut ass there, the player can't have a panic attack in peace without the air assaulting their lungs, or the lack of it. The lack of plants would also be a problem, since, you know, studies have shown that people tend to go insane without them. And lets not forget the plethora of new bacteria and diseases the players body would have to get used to. Uncontrollable outbursts leading to the young god tearing into themselves with their nails and ripping open wounds that would grant the bacteria a place to settle among tender flesh and blood.

Now imagine this from an outsider's perspective, your boss and self proclaimed god with the ego the size of Nevada's ever growing body count has given his spotlight to somebody else except him for once. Putting them on the four fronts of his people's devotion. And for the few moments of seeing them makes it clear of what a shell they've become compared to what your boss described them as. Their stature give oway their tired state, like the dark circles around their eyes weren't obvious enough. Matted hair vivid in coolers hangs loseley from their head. If this was the so-called god then you could only imagine how they were before arriving here, and that image was a much prettier picture.

Now, i'm gonna be fair, Phobos isn't dumb, he's an egomaniac sure but he didn't rule as long as he did without a reason. Everytime he tries to help the player when they are in their most harrowing state they lash out, or worse, flinch. Phobose hates the idea that he might be causing them harm, and to further add injury on the wound the only ones that seem to get the privilege of being in their presence are his two top scientists. One of which he already held disdain for doubles as a result. But he can restrain himself, for his god. If those two can postpone the steady decline of the young gods' health then he can proceed with figuring out a way to get them back home. For his gods sake.

But, what if they can't go back, what if (for whatever reason) they just can't go home, all of that work, all of that effort, for nothing. Their whole body feels heavy, it drags them down till they are a pile of imobile limbs. Now the tears start to fall as their silent cry soon turns into sobs of despair. They scream, claw and thrash at what they can get their nails on, clothes, floor, skin. It isn't till they start bleeding that someone tries to help them, a mistake. In reaction to being held, the young god latches onto the person's hand with their teeth, hard.

Hofnarr and Jebus (who were there at the request of the player) view the failure of the machine as not only an incompetence with the Auditor but the agency as a whole, if they can't help the player then who can. and duse they go back to being the players rock, emotionally, physically and psychologically, because there seems to be no one better than them. Though that begs the question, is the Auditor's inability to help because of their lack of power, or because the employee doesn't have something the player has? Was it the players absence of the project that led to it falling, and what would happen if they were… Perhaps they can't go home but that doesn't mean they can't go to other games…

Listen, I'm just saying, I think Minecraft would make for some great therapy, especially with a shaders pack installed.

Yeah, I think Nevada would be very hard on a young player and such...or just humans in general. Since we aren't made to survive such harsh environments! That would be such a challenge for all of the madcom bois to try and combat. It's easy to fight something physically, but fighting something mentally or emotionally is a totally different story!

[astaldis]

Lost Scenes Thursday! Get to know your favourite authors better. Show five scenes from either abandoned fics where you regret they will never see the light of day, or five scenes from WIPs where you are impatient to see them out there. Long, short, one-liner... it's all good reading. Tag five other authors where you are curious.

Thank you so much for asking @valandhirwriter! Only, I fear I don't have much to share 🙈 Just a little snippet from the next chapter for the Cahir x Sabrina fic I'm working on at the moment. Here it is, the start of chapter 6 of The Interrogation Game:

Sabrina takes her time. First she had a pleasantly undisturbed, long late morning nap and now she is soaking in a wonderfully relaxing hot tub, luxuriating in the delicate fragrances she added to the water and savouring the exquisite sparkling wine she is treating herself with. After the exhausting night and all the hiking hither and tither, it is a well-deserved gratification. The Nilfgaardian is not in danger of dying from his injuries anymore, she is pretty sure of that, and thus not in need of urgent care. Yet, he is clearly not fit enough to do much besides resting. So, all in all, he is rather useless to her at the moment. As the locking spell's effect will last until fairly late in the evening, there is no way he can escape from his unusual prison, no worries there, plus nothing dangerous is inside the bags she left with him, no knives or pointy forks or glassware that he could use to attack her or to hurt himself - unless he chooses to throttle or hang himself with the help of a ripped apart blanket. The man appears to have some serious mental issues with all these nightmares of his, and Sabrina is not a psychologist. However, she did not get the impression that Cahir is desperate enough to try such drastic measures to escape his imprisonment. Well, if he does end himself, then good riddance, one enemy of the free North less, but it would definitely surprise her. 

No, Sabrina is almost a hundred percent certain that she will find the prisoner alive and with his health much improved once she returns to the cave. If only she did not have to walk all the way back there. Things would be much easier if she could use a portal, obviously, but it is impossible. The explosion of Tor Lara can still be felt in the structural matrix of magic on the island and the lingering chaotic effect of its warped portal is too unpredictable and dangerous. Ending up with a missing limb or with her body parts scattered about all over the continent is not a desirable prospect, but it is a possible scenario if she did try to portal. It is not worth the risk. With a deep sigh, Sabrina sets out toward the cave in the late afternoon, carrying another bag filled with provisions.

Fun fact: It's the very first fic on Ao3 with this pairing. I got it from the Witcher Wheel. Just spin it twice to get a ship. It's fun!

[achaotichuman]

I put this in a post just before this one, but I'll reiterate it here. I missed a ton of the days for Thirty-one days of Tamcien due to unforeseen mental health issues, I will be continuing the challenge from now until the end of the month and for the days I've missed I will post at random inbetween each day.

Anyway, hope y'all enjoy this one!

Read on Ao3 or below the cut!

The chains were heavy, they rattled when he moved, alerting his captor everytime he attempted to adjust himself. The silk sheets were soft against his flesh, sliding over his skin, sticking to the sweat that clung to him. His breaths were heavy, everything hurt, every muscle burning as he tried not to move. He hated moving and hearing the clinking of links. His eyes were screwed shut as he tried not to let his chest rise too much. 

She watched him, her eyes were burning into his lids, a snake waiting for its prey to finally give up. A toy, he was nothing more than a toy. 

He forced himself to look, he had to see, he had to know his surroundings, it was the only way he knew how to survive. 

She was there, just halfway out of the shadows of the room. Were they in a room? It was so dark, he couldn’t make out anything but an inky empty void surrounding the bed which was illuminated like a spotlight shone down on him. 

His breath quickened ever so slightly, the chain rattled, and she took a step forward, that mouth of teeth spreading to a grin as her wide eyes didn’t blink once. 

Tamlin wanted to scream, he couldn’t cover himself, he couldn’t look away, he couldn’t risk moving. The muscle in his arm twitched and the chains rattled, she took another step, another and another, with every noise he made, she got ever closer. 

Her hands were like claws, a predator ready to devour him. She’d torment him, torture him, break him mind, body and soul, and then she’d consume him entirely. 

He wanted to beg, he wanted to run, but there was no where to go. There was never anywhere to go. She took another step forward and his body succumbed to blind panic, he tried to shove himself away from the bed, his limbs moving without his consent. 

She was upon him, and he screamed as she sunk her teeth into his-

“-lin, Tamlin, Tamlin!”

Tamlin shot bolt upright, heat cascading through him, a boiling warmth that threatened to melt the flesh from his bones. Heart pounding, his face was red, his hands twisted in the sheets. Fear pulsated through his body, making his breath short and quick. He desperately looked around trying to see where she went. 

But she wasn’t there. There was no void, the bed was his own. The window was open, allowing for a gentle Spring breeze that carried golden pollen. The sheer curtains billowed slightly, his room was his own, with its gold and green accents, and his clothes on the floor. 

“Tam.” A soft voice whispered. 

Tamlin turned to see Lucien, half upright next to him, his hand hovering in the space between them, hesitating, wondering whether or not to reach out.

“It was a dream, Tam.” Lucien murmured softly. 

Tamlin stared at him for a long while. 

Then his shoulders shook, his eyes burned and his heart twisted as sobs were ripped from him. 

“Oh, my love.” Lucien quickly wrapped him in his arms, Tamlin buried his face into his chest, he tried to say something, anything at all, an apology for his outburst, an explanation, anything. But all he could do was cry and cry and cry. He soaked Lucien’s shirt, he trembled in his arms, he’d never felt so weak in his life. 

Even down Under The Mountain, he could have claimed more strength than this. This was downright pathetic. 

But there was nothing to be done, he couldn’t stop. 

“Its okay, it’s okay my dear, I’m here.” Lucien whispered, rubbing his back, stroking his hair, whispering praises and sweetness into his ear and it only made Tamlin cry harder. 

“I’m so tired.” Tamlin sobbed, his words were practically incoherent, he couldn’t form any other sentence. He was exhausted, he couldn’t think, the crying hurt, his chest was so tight, his head started to pound, and he was so tired. 

“Here, here, lie down.” Lucien said, guiding him back into bed. 

Lucien pulled Tamlin into his chest, keeping him close, keeping him wrapped in his warmth. He rubbed gentle circles into every inch of flesh he found. He kissed his face and his hair. Until eventually Tamlin’s sobs began to slow, he couldn’t stop the twitches and the whimpers that left his throat, he wanted so desperately to hide his red, puffy face. This was not the behaviour of a High Lord of a Court, fuck, this wasn’t the behaviour of a fucking adult male. 

But Tamlin couldn’t help it. Fucking hell, he was tired and he was scared. 

Scared she’d come back, scared she’d haunt another dream. He was so tired but he was terrified to go back to sleep. 

“I’m not leaving,” Lucien whispered, Tamlin kept his face buried against his chest, pressing them both impossibly close, Lucien continued to say, “I’m not leaving, I won’t leave you, I’m never gonna leave you alone.”

Darkness was seeping in, sleep called, but Tamlin still held Lucien frightfully tightly. God he needed sleep so desperately, but he just…

Lucien kneaded his side and back with his fingers, pressing into his flesh with his strong grip, whispering sweet nothings and reassurances. Tamlin was practically a puddle in his arms. 

“I’m so tired, Luce.” Tamlin whispered, gripping his shirt as tightly as he could. 

“I know, baby, I’m not leaving, I’ll keep you safe.” Lucien murmured back. 

There was no doubt Lucien was also exhausted, and probably wanted desperately to go back to sleep. But he didn’t, he wouldn’t fall asleep until he knew Tamlin felt safe. He’d stay up the rest of the night if he had too. And that was what eased the aching in Tamlin’s chest, the certainty of knowing that Lucien would keep his word, he would be there when he woke up, he would keep him safe. 

It was wrong to want such a thing. He was the one who should be keeping Lucien safe, not the other way around. 

It was such a terrible thing, but the fear slowly eased, the pounding stopped its rampage, and Tamlin was finally able to go back to sleep. 

Divider by @saradika-graphics

[snowe-zolynn-rogers]

Who Let Us Have A Group Chat?

Pairings: None

Word Count: 1,424

Summary: The mystery of the disappearing plushie.

Warnings: Cursing, Violence (mentioned), Panic Attacks (mentioned), Death (mentioned), Caps, Therapy (because they all need it), Fighting (mentioned only), Age Regression, Give Moon His Bagel 2k23, let me know if I should add anything else.

Chapter 3: Who Stole The Plushie?

3:40am Who Took My Hat?

Eclipse: Can I PLEASE have Element back?

Blood Moon: For the last time, I don’t have Element!

Harvest Moon: Eclipse, we don’t know where Element is, please just exist without her for like an hour so we can find her.

Eclipse: I’m asking nicely! I know someone took her! I want her back!

Heliosphere: Eclipse, nobody has Element.

Bolide: I don’t even know what that is but no, I don’t have it.

Lunar: Do I have to kick all of your asses this morning or are you going to shut up?

Kill Code: Sons, what’s wrong?

Moon: Why are you all up at 4 in the morning?

Sun: djfnskdofnf

Lunar: Why are you up at 4 in the morning, Moon, ignoring your panic attacks again?

Moon: …yes

Lunar: Get the hell in here.

Kill Code: Sons, what happened?

Eclipse: I can’t find Element.

Kill Code: Which one of you took Element?

Blood Moon: None of us did. Bo doesn’t even know what Element is.

Kill Code: Go ahead and check that rancid little human.

4:01am Who Took My Hat?

Harvest Moon: elementgettingsquishedtoplushydeath.jpg

Harvest Moon: Trash Man took her and hid her in the basement. Bloody is ripping him limb from limb again.

Kill Code: Good to know your brother will still commit murder for his siblings on occasion. Now, get some sleep, my children.

Harvest Moon: Eclipse is already asleep. Fell asleep right after the picture.

Kill Code: Good, take his lead.

Sun: sola!!@:!&”/389bckkowoxb;?£{*•|?=**#%7739  f

8:45am Who Took My Hat?

Sun: Why does he have a stuffed bear?

Kill Code: He wanted one.

Moon: Sun, you can’t just ask people why they have a plushie.

Sun: It’s weird!

Lunar: I own plushies. Am I weird?

Sun: That’s different, you don’t refuse to sleep if you don’t have them.

Lunar: Yes I do, I make sure they’re all there before I go to bed and designate one for the night to sleep with. My plushies get very cared for. I don't go to sleep unless I can find them all.

Moon: Sun, I still sleep with that plush possum. I still can’t sleep without Puck.

Kill Code: Sun, I’ve seen that you have plushies in your room.

Sun: Listen, this is different.

Moon: Because it’s Eclipse?

Sun: Fine, yes. Because it’s Eclipse.

Lunar: To be very fair, Eclipse has had Element since me and him took over. Maybe before that even. Element has been with him longer than I have. He literally can’t sleep without her. He used one of Moon’s old machines that makes her glow in the dark and he cried the one time we couldn’t find her.

Moon: See? He clearly has an emotional attachment to Element. Ain’t nothing wrong with that. Same as me and Puck or Lunar and Lord Luminescence the Eleventh of Love Kingdom.

Lunar: Just call him Lumi.

Moon: But the full name is so much better.

Lunar: I call him Lumi.

Moon: Alas

Eclipse: Element is weird?

Moon: No, she isn’t.

Eclipse: Sunny said so.

Kill Code: Son, having Element isn’t weird, she’s healthy for you.

Bolide: Father Alert, Father Alert! We need Dad, he’s crying!

Kill Code: Pay in coffee?

Moon: And a bagel. And coffee cake. For disturbing my late-night panic attack party with Puck last night.

Kill Code: Consider it done.

Moon: Bacon and egg bagel, no cheese, can’t eat dairy.

Kill Code: You severely need to fix our lactose intolerance, Moon.

Moon: Why? I hate dairy anyway.

Kill Code: You cried over not being able to eat ice cream yesterday because you couldn’t find any that were nondairy.

Moon: Leave my mental breakdown out of this.

Kill Code: No, talk about your damn issues.

Moon: Maybe once I’m dead and haunting my brothers, maybe then I’ll talk about my mental health issues.

Harvest Moon: Brother is happy once again.

Kill Code: Moon, I will buy you nondairy ice cream if you just talk about your mental health, please.

Sun: I want to talk about my mental health!

Kill Code: We know, Sun.

Sun: I’m sad.

Kill Code: We know, Sun. I’m scheduling both of you therapy appointments.

Moon: You are not scheduling me therapy.

Kill Code: Then why am I talking to a therapist’s office right now?

Moon: DO NOT

Kill Code: Your therapy is scheduled. I’m not telling you when.

Moon: Gooooooooooood DAMMIT

Kill Code: Sun, go to this address today at five.

Kill Code has dropped a location

Kill Code: Same therapy office as Eclipse’s therapist.

Lunar: Wait, that’s my therapist’s office.

Eclipse: Do you go to Dr. Leeson?

Lunar: No, Dr. Marin

Eclipse: Lunar, Dr. Leeson and Dr. Marin are married.

Lunar: Oh. Do you think they talk about us?

Eclipse: Absolutely. Probably not with names or anything but probably yeah. Probably ask each other how they got the abused and abuser in their offices.

Lunar: What time is your therapy usually at?

Eclipse: Mondays at ten in the morning.

Lunar: See, that’s why we miss each other. I’m Wednesdays at one.

Eclipse: Which means they probably talk about us on Thursdays like ‘you hear the trauma of the week from the those brothers?’

Lunar: ‘yeah, the younger one said he hid in playhouses’

Eclipse: ‘the older one says he cries more than he laughs. he hides in closets. I can’t figure out why for the life of me.’

Blood Moon: I visit Dr. Pierce every couple weeks because Dad wants “mental health checks”

Harvest Moon: Dr. Pierce is scared of you.

Blood Moon: Hey, Dr. Ryans is scared of you too.

Harvest Moon: Dr. Ryans is scared of the things I tell him.

Heliosphere: Why are me and Bo not in therapy?

Kill Code: Do you two have anything therapy-worthy?

Bolide: Not really, no.

Kill Code: That’s why.

Moon: Why can’t I know when my therapy is?

Kill Code: You’ll evade it.

Moon: You make a good point, can’t argue with that.

Sun: I’ll bite, why does Eclipse have a plushie?

Eclipse: Because I love her?

Sun: Yes, but why??

Eclipse: Because she loves me??

Sun: Plushies are incapable of love.

Moon: Sun

Eclipse: Element is my best friend. Ellie has loved me since I found her and I loved her back.

Sun: Plushies aren’t sentient, Eclipse. She doesn’t love you.

Blood Moon: Sun man

Eclipse: She does love me!

Sun: No she doesn’t, Eclipse.

Harvest Moon: Sunny

Kill Code: Sun.

Eclipse: Well at least Element has never abandoned me like everyone else!

Harvest Moon: Big drop.

Kill Code: Sunrise, shut up.

Sun: What?

Blood Moon: LET ME FIGHT THE SUN

Heliosphere: Sun, that was mean

Bolide: Yeah, Sunny.

Sun: What even happened? I just told him plushies can’t love?

Moon: Sun, you done fucked up.

Sun: Why?

Moon: How do I put this delicately so you don’t get upset in therapy later and the therapists don't figure out they have a fifth sibling?

Moon: Um…know how a couple of the teenagers need to be in the play area when they’re in the daycare because they regress?

Sun: Yes, Rei and Adalyn.

Moon: And you understand regression?

Sun: Obviously.

Sun: oh

Sun: OH FUCK ECLIPSE IM SORRY

Kill Code: He says thank you.

Harvest Moon: No he said ‘tank ooo sunny’

Sun: Oh my god

Lunar: I want this recorded, this has to be adorable. Finally a chance to see him vulnerable.

Kill Code: eclipsebeingadorable.vid

[video transcription] Kill Code: Come on, son, can you say hi to your brothers?

Eclipse: I love Babas.

Kill Code: Can you say hi to Sun and Lunar?

Eclipse: I love you Sunny and LuLu!

Kill Code: Gonna show them Element?

Eclipse: I gots Ellie! Mine!

Kill Code: Yes she is yours, isn’t she? The she takes care of you when nobody else is home, right?

Eclipse: Bee! Paci! Paci! Das mine!

[Blood Moon shows up behind Eclipse lightly biting an orange and black paci’s black lanyard with pumpkins on it]

Blood Moon: Oh, is it now?

Eclipse: *giggling* Das mine!

Blood Moon: Oh okay, fine, but only because you’re so cute.

[Blood Moon hands him the pacifier and rests his head on Eclipse’s shoulder while Eclipse happily puts his paci in his mouth and leans against him]

Kill Code: All better now, son?

Eclipse: I bettew.

Kill Code: Okay, good. [transcription end]

Lunar: God, why is that cute?

Sun: This is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen?

Moon: Yep, it’s cute to witness. Cute enough to wait for my bagel.

Kill Code: Shit, I forgot your fucking bagel.

[destructivearchitect]

Hey! I'm interested in the Reaper Smiles Upon You WIP 👀

hi!! this fic is literally the blood in my veins and the air in my lungs rn!! i eat, sleep, and breathe this fic LMAO

it's a silverv long multi-chap that i've just recently started actually writing, but have been kicking the idea around and working on the outline ever since i played phantom liberty. it's set after the tower ending, where a streetkid v remains in night city working for mama welles at the el coyote cojo, trying her hardest to survive without johnny... until reed contacts her, informing her of his going rogue from the fia due to finding out that the nusa sold johnny's biochip back to the last remaining arasaka cell still working on the relic project.

that's all i'll say without spoiling major plot points! it's angsty as all hell, especially in the v-centric chapters early on, i include a lot of her chronic physical and mental health issues that are illusioned to in the tower ending and indulge some of my own headcanons. johnny eventually gets a body, and then it's a lot of push and pull with the two, their blurred time apart causing old habits and emotions to resurface (and even more new ones to surface). lots of hurt/comfort. oh and panam!!! and rogue! and kerry! and milton nauman! and reed and so mi! and mama welles and pepe!

oh and it includes lore from the rpg. i'm just having a really fun time with it and it's very special to me and i can't wait to post it (but alas, drafts and editing...)

a little sneak peak of the first chapter under the cut for those interested <3

V longed for the nightmares that caused her to shoot up in bed, stumble to the shower for a cold wake-up call, find an odd relief in the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

Now, it was as if all the life had been siphoned out of her, slowly depleting until not a drop remained. Her eyes opened, tear-stained and blurry. The expectation never stopped, for him to shift into focus, share a camaraderie as she calmed; never words, just the comfort of the other's presence.

The late-afternoon light peered in through the windows causing her vision to stutter, and she curled in on herself, hugging her knees to her chest. All that remained now was a dull ache, strong as the day he was ripped from her, yet unsharpened and unyielding.

Even if the drive to wake up fists-drawn remained, her body didn’t allow it. The first few minutes of waking up were usually the worst, as her vision glitched and nausea washed over her. Her body twitched and heat like embers shot up her limbs. It had been manageable, she’d grown accustomed to it.

Today was different though, and V narrowly avoided choking on her own blood as she coughed it up on the floor beside her bed. She brought a finger up to wipe her lip, examining the smear of blood that remained.

[thezeinterviews]

Berlingske: Berlingske meets the woman behind the war President: "Sometimes I ask if he can give me some good news"

Ukraine's First Lady thanks Denmark for its support in a defense struggle that is currently bringing grim news on a daily basis. In an interview with Berlingske, she explains how she - and the President - keep her spirits up. And why the country risks losing an entire generation.

SIMON KRUSE Security Policy Correspondent

Tuesday, April 16, 2024, 20:40

Olena Zelenska's eyes grow distant as she ponders the question. She has just told us how she tries to dose the amount of horrific news from the frontline. One person cannot carry everything on their shoulders. But a person at war can't stop trying either. Especially when you're married to a President, and when even the rare moments that should belong to the two of them alone are also invaded by the all-consuming war. Because the answer to that painful question is yes. Even the President's own family can feel the discouragement sometimes. Olena Zelenska, the Ukrainian First Lady who has stood by her husband and her country, can also reach a limit. She smiles sadly at the thought. "Sometimes I ask him if he can give me some good news. Something optimistic. Give me something!" she says about her conversations with her husband, Volodymyr Zelenskyj. Berlingske meets Olena Zelenska in Copenhagen, where she is on a quick visit. A visit that otherwise brings more positive news for some of the efforts that the country's First Lady has fought most fiercely for. On Tuesday, the government announced another military aid package to Ukraine of DKK 2.2 billion. And the day before, a Danish coalition announced plans to build new homes for war-affected Ukrainian foster children and their families. This is part of what she is in Denmark to give thanks for. It "fills her with hope," she says. "I am impressed by how Denmark helps us on all levels," says the Ukrainian First Lady in an interview with Berlingske. But she also brings serious thoughts from the war-torn country. Thoughts about "the long war" and its growing impact on the mental health of an entire country. Because 780 days of defensive fighting with lost limbs, air raids, funerals and escape tear and rip at the supporting walls of a society in ways that we are only beginning to sense. "There are children who are three years old now, who are only beginning to understand the world, who don't remember anything other than war because they are too young. For them, air raid alarms are everyday life," says Olena Zelenska. But despite the obvious needs, talking about the psychological effects of the war is still a struggle for many Ukrainians. "That's why we are now doing everything we can not to lose a generation," she says. "It requires you to be brutally honest.

Things are going the wrong way at the front We meet at a time when the war is more unpredictable than ever. Russian forces are on the rise again, while parts of the promised Western aid are frozen in the US Congress. In several places along the front line, the invasion forces are eating away at the front line kilometer by kilometer. Most recently, Russia launched the fiercest rocket and drone attacks on the million-strong city of Kharkiv since the first phase of the war two years ago. They used targeted double strikes, where a precision bombardment against civilian targets is followed by another attack after a short pause. "They wait for the rescuers to arrive and then they attack again, killing the rescuers," says Olena Zelenska. Last week, a video footage showed how a rescue worker in Kharkiv found his own father among the dead. The video shows him sobbing next to the body. This is everyday life. Every single member of her own small Ukrainian delegation has lost loved ones in the war, says the First Lady. "A whole community has changed. No one is the same as they were before the war. Not even those who are alive and in good health. Some had to flee the occupation. Some were pulled out of the ruins of their own house," she says. Here, it would probably sound right to say that adversity only makes people stronger. But that's not always true. "It drains our strength, even though we want to hold on as long as we can because it's a matter of survival," says Olena Zelenska seriously. Because even internationally, the psychological consequences are far less talked about than the material destruction. But according to the Red Cross, there is an "imminent danger that a whole generation of Ukrainian children and young people will be lost". And even once the war is over, the number of war veterans will be staggering. Ukraine's Ministry of Health estimates that close to 40 percent of the country's population, 15 million people, are in need of psychological care. Between three and four million are estimated to need medication. Therefore, the first step is to break the taboo that is still attached to talking about psychological wounds, says Zelenska. She herself has become the face of a campaign under the slogan "How are you?" with the goal of getting people to talk about it. And to seek help. "Sometimes we say we're fine so as not to scare our loved ones. Sometimes we say we're fine so that we can bring peace to others. So our task is to teach society and all of us to ask ourselves how we really feel and what we can do about it," says Olena Zelenska. Ukraine's past as part of the Soviet Union - when psychiatric hospitals were used to punish dissidents - hasn't made that task any easier. But if the adult generation doesn't learn to talk about their own vulnerability, neither will the next generation. "Some parents of young children might tell you that the air alarm is something other than what it is. I don't think that's the right thing to do. You have to choose the right words and the right tone, but you have to tell the truth," says Olena Zelenska. If you dodge children's questions, they might imagine something even worse than reality. A genre of children's books has already emerged in Ukraine to help parents talk to their children about war.

The luxury of watching a movie Olena Zelenska knows all about the latter. She still regularly runs down to the bomb shelter with the Presidential couple's two children when the air raid sirens wail. And on the morning two years ago when war broke out, she was the one who had to tell them that Russian forces had invaded the country. The couple's daughter, Oleksandra, was 17 and their son, Kyrylo, had just turned 11. Did you tell the whole truth about the war to your children yourself? "I was afraid to do it, but by the time I was ready, they already knew almost everything," says Olena Zelenska with a wry smile. "Fortunately, my children are not that small. And actually, we experienced everything at the same time," she says of the evacuation from her home outside Kyiv as Russian forces advanced towards the capital. "For me as a mother, it was a tragedy that my children had to experience this. No parent could prepare their children for this," she says. The war has also turned the Presidential couple's personal lives upside down. For most of their adult lives, the couple has worked together. They both have a background in TV comedy. He on stage and she as a scriptwriter. Now, the security dictates of war require them to live apart most of the time. And while the war can make you despondent, it's not the despair that's the biggest issue. "We don't stop. We don't lose heart. I wouldn't say that anger is our main emotion. But what happens when you are beaten?" "You can submit or you can defend yourself. And that anger, that anger gives us the strength to defend ourselves," says the First Lady. She looks out the window over the Copenhagen canal. The Presidential couple often only see each other once a week, says Olena Zelenska. When they do, she prefers to reminisce about the old days. "Sometimes we can watch a movie together. I like to watch things that we watched when we were children or young people. Maybe a silly comedy," she says. Can you laugh when you're together like in the old days? "Yes, of course we do. We try to support each other that way by making each other laugh," says Olena Zelenska. But no one and nothing is the same after the outbreak of war. Not even laughter, which now serves a different purpose. Olena Zelenska quotes the Ukrainian poet Lesja Ukrajinka: "I laughed in order not to cry".

Article

[ruminate88]

Hi! I'm trying to learn how to be a better person and I've been reading your blog since I found it. I'm sorry for what you went through. I hope you get better soon. I know it's cliche to say you're not alone, but you are probably feeling like you are because narcissistic abuse includes being isolated--by being manipulated or being forced to isolate yourself. It's a very slow healing process like an amputated limb, but it WILL get better as you find peace.

Can you maybe make a post with a list of all the bad things narcs have done to you? I think listing helps.

I appreciate you reading my blog if this is all for you, I’m glad I created it. I wanted to help at least one person see a light at the end of their tunnel. Thank you for the kind words I know I’m not completely alone, I pray to God everyday and believe he hears my cries and cares but physically, yes, I don’t talk to family or friends about any of this, I stay to myself, as I’ve been ashamed and unsure if they would be able to understand all I went through and obviously not to upset family.

I can only tell you I’ve felt like a broken/bad person many of days and I don’t take all the credit in healing myself, I believe God has done most of the work. The best choice I ever made was to admit I failed my life and myself. To ask God to change me and change the direction of my life because I was totally lost not knowing what I needed or wanted!! Nothing had been working for me and I was in the vicious cycle of dating manipulating/controlling men. I HAD to make a change or I was going to hurt myself. I felt like a piece of garage that my exes threw away. 😔😔😔

Things that was hardest about narcissistic abuse:

• You don’t recognize the isolation until you’re out of the relationship with the narcissist. You’re so desperate; worried about pleasing them and making them not upset with you, you spend all your time away from people who actually care about you. Memories of those times makes me so sad to this day.

• The love-bomb phase although it appeared wonderful and my exes were paying me so much attention, I think that phase was the most sickening and disturbing phase. They literally pretend to be the “partner of your dreams” while they’re deceiving you so they can use you and control you. I had been unstable already within my mental health so I was an easy target for them to trick me. My ex Andrew told me, “I mean it with all my heart and soul that I love you and want you to text me” even though he had went no contact from me a whole week prior. Him saying such a great statement kept me pulled in to his toxic pool and I kept on drowning in it.

• so I dealt with 3 narcissists but the 2nd one, Cody, he dumped me twice but the 2nd time he did it by ghosting me. I’m not trying to be dramatic when I say it was very traumatizing… Considering you’re in trauma bond with this person. They create a false narrative that you’re both so obsessed with each other and you believe the feelings are reciprocated but they’re not!! The narcissistic relationship is extremely one-sided. So him ghosting me, he not only made me so attached and crazy about the fairytale love he made up with me but then to just ghost me and rip it all away, took my spirit at that time. I was a dead person walking after that. I saw almost NO hope for me. Then to meet Andrew not even 6 months after and I begged Andrew pleeeease don’t hurt me like Cody did but Andrew couldn’t help who he is. 💔🖤

• Another scar I have had to overcome is after I broke up with Andrew, we continued to flirt and sext a lot but then started to argue a lot. (He would claim he missed sexting me but then blame me and say I was making him wanna sext that I didn’t respect the breakup) Arguing through text is always rough because words can be misconstrued. (I couldn’t hardly get him on the phone ever to actually talk. He only wanted to text.) Andrew said very hurtful things to me. He kept changing “our story” because he couldn’t be honest with himself or take accountability for the fact he was in a real relationship with me for a year. He told me “He pretended all this feelings to just lead me on” but then quickly changed his story again to say “he was in love with me but fell out of love with me and was afraid to tell me” but the biggest slap in my face was eventually he exclaimed, “If I’m hurting you so much then just stop caring about me.” 😭 (as if I could just undo the attachment he allowed me to make with him. The many months he got my hopes up with future faking plus the promises he gave to me that I held onto but he couldn’t take accountability for anything he had done to me or with me.

• Eventually during the many arguments I had with Andrew, I hit my breaking point and had a suicide attack!! I let him know right away I was done fighting and didn’t see how I could continue on with him. I told him I wanted to end my life and then flipped a switch and pretended to be scared for me and pretended to “rescue me” blew up my phone begging me to stay and saying he’s sorry to have said what he said in our arguments. I wanted to believe him so bad. Whenever the attack subsided hours later and I was able to calmly reply to his countless pleas for me to stay, he pretended to have been so “worried about me” but then explained he believed “I wasn’t well and needed to get professional help.” He made me believe I was messed up and had so many issues…. Now I finally look back and think that was a form of gaslighting. He found something he could use to make me look like a problem and it deflected the focus off of him being a cheater and a liar. (He had a new girlfriend already) That whole situation caused me so much anger that I never saw till years later when I am now healing, I realize I had all that anger to deal with. It was uncomfortable!

• Always being nervous with their reactions and consistenly apologizing for them, as they make you to believe everything is your fault. They don’t like when you speak up against their actions and behaviors. 3 times I tried to confront Andrew as he would ignore me 2/3 days at a time but then always come back and treat me like I was his baby and he wanted me. Those 3 times I would ask if he’s too busy for us, does he want to break up and just be friends but he would always get so defensive and act upset like I was causing him so much stress. It would always end with me being sorry and telling him how much I adore him and I would kiss his feet like he was a king and he would then say the most romantic things to me and say how beautiful I was BUT I always knew in the back of my mind he was cheating and hiding stuff from me but I was scared to admit it out loud and “lose him.” My friends would tell me what a loser he was that I should leave him but I would get so upset and push my friends away. Andrew was barely there for me but I was 110% faithful to him.

• Seeking their approval was super exhausting too and it’s taken me years to relax and be comfortable within my skin. Andrew and Cody both gave me so little but they took everything from me. I was pathetic in sitting next to my phone 24/7 begging Andrew to text me and pay me attention because when he did, it was always “hey babe I missed you” and he would Snapchat me selfies and I would melt at his sparklingly blue eyes yet they were fake. Truly his eyes are black!!! I would cry for days with my phone and stalk Andrew’s social media pages hoping I don’t find other women and I could never find proof he was cheating. When Andrew would finally text me back or Snapchat me, I didn’t want him to leave again so I was throwing myself at him!! 🥴🥴🥴 I would dress up with all the makeup and sometimes no clothes on hoping to make him wanna stay and he would tell me how much I turned him on how he wanted me but didn’t wanna tell our parents about our relationship… (I just knew he was hiding things and other girls but I would not admit it for months)

They make holidays miserable 😩 •Halloween - Andrew said he was going to a party, didn’t invite me and I didn’t hear from him again till the next day. (Cheating)

• Thanksgiving, didn’t hear from Andrew at all till later that night and he was out “Black Friday shopping” and treating me like some random person he’s texting. I spent that whole day isolated during my family dinner. I had my phone on a charger in the wall and spent hours trying to type a long text message to tell him how bothered I was with his “hot and cold” behavior but every time I wanted to send it to him, I was scared he would dump me and I kept erasing my message and retyping it. People kept asking “you okay??” And I pretended I was fine. He stole that thanksgiving away from me!! (Mind you any regular day Andrew would text me just fine it was only holidays he ruined)

• Christmas - sucked!!!! No good morning babe or merry Christmas from Andrew till really late when the day is almost over. I yet again was isolating myself during family time. Stayed in my bedroom so sad why my “boyfriend” hadn’t texted me alllll day. When he did finally text, I confronted his absense and he exclaimed “he wasn’t worthy of my love” and “he wasn’t good enough for me.” I thought he was breaking up with me and I cried so hard. He swore that he wasn’t breaking up but that he believed I deserved better than him and he could never be enough for me. It was so confusing and I was actually happy when the day ended because it just sucked so much 😣

• Valentine’s Day - Was the worst one. Andrew was different the whole month of January prior. He was the best boyfriend daily talking sweet to me and showing me “affection” and selfies galore but on Valentine’s Day it felt so forced with him. I begged him would he send me a video of himself saying “I love you” and he did!!! It just all felt off. Then later that night. He was super cold. I asked him “what are your plans tonight??” He said “I never get time to myself, I’m always studying, doing homework or spending time with you.” 🥺 ouch!!! He said he just wanted to play video games and relax…. He continued to snap me some but I felt he didn’t really want to. He took time in between each response, leaving me to sit on my phone all night wishing things were better. He flirted some but that was it. I was in bed disappointed he chose video games over me on valentines day and at some point he never responded back!! I sat up till 3am letting tears fall as I gazed at Snapchat seeeing he still never opened my message… the thing with him is usually if he felt “sick” he would text me about it. So next morning he messaged me first goood morning and asked how I slept. I told him I waited up till 3am for him to respond!! THEN Andrew said “I didn’t sleep at all. I was up sick to my stomach all night”…. What?!! I knew he was lying. 😔 I asked him why didn’t he tell me he got sick and he said because he it was his stomach and he was embarrassed to say he was in the bathroom… haha (the man sent me nude selfies from his shower almost daily. He’s not embarrassed easily.)

I know this is a lot but I am finally at a place where I believe I experienced all of this so that I can better understand and relate to other people. All the anger and bitterness I had from both my exes was hard but gave me tough skin. All the nights and days I didn’t sleep worried if I was impressing them. They never deserved me to impress them but I can’t help but think maybe a small part of me touched their lives but maybe that’s just hopeful thinking. I hate to call them monsters, it makes me feel bad but I can’t hide the fact they hurt me soooooo deep. ❤️‍🩹🖤

(The list of things I endured from both Cody and Andrew could go on for many chapters. I chose the moments that I felt affected me the most)

You said it right!!! It’s exactly like a limb that needs healing. It’s every part of me. Years after I got away from Andrew, I started to randomly lose all the weight I couldn’t before. I lost a lot of hair too and I was so defensive in my marriage. My husband could say the littlest thing to trigger me and I instantly wanted to be so upset and hold everything inside to avoid any conflict. I hate confrontation it didn’t always go so easy with Andrew or Cody. It’s scary to wonder how my husband would react. Would he be different from those men?

I blocked Andrew’s number in 2015 and I didn’t learn about narcissism until 2022!!! That’s a long time that I searched for answers and I struggled in my marriage because I’ve kept a guard up scared to face anymore humiliation or disappointment in my life. Now that I understand a little more about what emotional abuse is, I began to feel everything and make more sense of it. I now see the light at the end of the tunnel and I’ve worked so hard on getting my hair back and getting my gut health under control. I’m spending so much time with family and I stand up for myself more!!!! I believe there is much purpose in all the suffering I faced with the narcissists. (There just has to be) I believe all of it made me a stronger person!! Do I “miss” the false faces and the love bomb phase?? It’s addicting more than it is “missing them”. I don’t know the real Andrew or Cody. Last time I tried to Google cody, I felt like he was sooo different it bothered me so much. I basically had a one-sided relationship with total strangers who hated my guts but pretended to be in love with me… they haunt me every day but I refuse to ever reach out to them and I do try to pray for them every time I feel upset about them. What else can I do?? It’s all over! They can’t change what they did to me and I can’t make them say sorry. If God doesn’t change them, they’re never going to feel empathy for the broken heart they gave me but God is showing me love I never saw ever before. So is my husband. I’m learning just now to finally trust both God and my husband!! (Taking deep breaths because I’m safe now) I’m only looking up now! I’ve already hit my rock bottom! ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹 Hope this is all enlightening, encouraging and helpful! Thank you again for taking time to message me!! 🥰

[bluecoolr]

For Life Or Until Fault

Alt Timeline 2.0 Darrell Todd (Odile's Darrell) Introduction

@solmints-messyocdiary

Warnings: MINORS DNI! Main character/s are slasher ocs! Themes revolving around mental turmoil, religious trauma, paranoia, demonic possession.

The letter was typewritten on cheap lightweight paper, but it sat heavy on the desk blotter. Blowing a cloud of smoke, Sister Agatha stared at it from the window. It stared back with a presence as arresting as its sender. Her gaze traveled to the ancient typewriter sitting beside it. Putting out her cigarette, Sister Agatha sat down and began to write.

My Dear Sir,

I write this letter on behalf of Mr. Darrell Todd, who served Our Lady of the Abandoned Sanatorium as groundskeeper under my supervision.

He first came to us as a patient.

She decided against it and ripped the paper out of the carriage. She began again.

We came by his services in a fortuitous manner.

He had been hauled to the sanatorium’s doorstep by authorities, with no memory of how he came to Moldova or where he had been for the past five years. Haggard, starving, and understandably distressed, he was taken to the psychiatric wing - where he was put under her care. For the first few weeks he was inconsolable, and moved between periods of reflective silence and hysteria.

During his time with us, his Romanian was sparse but became sufficient with lessons. He has greatly improved as I see from our current correspondence. His English, as you may soon tell, is distinctly American.

He was a big man. Quite young. The hospital gown they gave him barely reached his knees. The nuns averted their eyes whenever they passed him, a desperate attempt to keep their vows . His patient tag bit into his wrist. He had remembered his name, at least.

Gradually, Sister Agatha was able to nurse him back to health. They struck up a friendship of sorts, with Darrell stubbornly keeping himself at a safe distance, protecting what little he knew about himself. With time, his stability returned and he began to volunteer around the hospital. “The Devil finds work for idle hands to do, Sister,” he reasoned.

He helped with the garden work, usually saving whole plots that others had given up on, and hunted pests that frequented the property. It had taken a great deal of convincing for her superiors to let a psychiatric patient have access to a hunting rifle. When he gunned down the fox that had routinely broken into their chicken coop, however, they stopped voicing their disdain.

Mr. Todd is intelligent and very eager to learn. He is the finest hunter that has ever graced our grounds, and possesses military accuracy. He is hardworking with a gentle, quiet nature and of strong Catholic faith.

Sister Agatha was at once bombarded by memories of Darrell in vomiting fits in the churchyard, trembling in every limb whenever he was told to come to mass. For all his stay at the sanatorium, he would never set foot in the church. He would pace outside, hum along to the hymns, and kick up soil once he had calmed down.

He would also avert his eyes from any image of Christ, going so far as to remove the crucifix that hung on his bedroom wall. Sister Agatha often found it stuffed under his bed and would return it to its place. Always, she would find it missing the next day, its outline glowing like a brand on the faded wallpaper.

“Sister, I beg you. Get me an exorcist.” The request had alarmed - if not terrified - her, but she had pulled strings to grant it.

“He needs a psychiatrist, Sister,” Father Grigore insisted, “not an exorcist. Has his amnesia improved at all?”

It had not.

“I don’t think it’s good, Sister. There’s guilt there. Subconscious. Why do you suppose he fears God so?”

And yet, the board deemed him rehabilitated enough to be released. He had benefited from their care for too long. And so, one day he was sent packing. He marched, forlorn but determined, down the deserted road, and that was the last she ever saw of him.

I wish for you a successful partnership. I could not recommend a more suitable man for the job.

Yours in God,

Sister Agatha