#sometimes I have yogurt if we have it

[ranoutofficssoiwritemyown]

Hello, I hope you're fine!! If you are open for requests, how do you think the lads men would react to mc telling them her period is late?

Hii, so sorry for the delay. Uni and work have been crazy and I finally managed to sit down to write

Soo let's start with Zayne. He tracks your period so he knows it's late, hence he doesn't even seem fazed when you burst into his office panicking.

"Yes, 8 days to be exact. You've been under stress these two weeks and don't even eat meals properly. Although, I suggest taking a test and in case of pregnancy I'll schedule and appointment with the gynecologist in our hospital"

You can't help but look at him shocked by his calm demeanour.

"Of course, I would tell all of these 2 days ago if only you didn't ditch our appointment. Now, if you excuse me I have a patient waiting for me in surgery room"

He rose from his chair heading to the door but stopped in front of you.

"I hope you know, in case of pregnancy you don't have anything to worry about"

You just nod your head still dumbfounded and he left the room with a kiss on your forehead.

I imagine Sylus also tracking your period and he wants you to be pregnant so bad. He is the one to tell you that you're pregnant, actually. One night, when you're in the kitchen deciding on late night snack he stands beside you with his arms crossed.

"Your period is late"

He brushes off your question about him tracking your period, instead repeating his statement. You make a mental calculations and just shrug.

"Only by 3 days. It's no big deal"

He clears his throat.

"It might become a big deal. You should take a test just in case"

"It happens sometimes. Like I said, no big deal"

"Take a test, just to be sure"

"First of all it's too early. Second of all, we use protection-"

"We know it doesn't protect 100% of times"

"Oh, stop worrying, will you? I'm not pregnant"

You finally decide on strawberry yogurt.

"I think you are mistaken, sweetie. I do not fret over the possibility of you being pregnant. Quite the opposite, if we are being honest..." he mumbles the last part under his breath but you squint at him.

"Sylus"

"Yes, sweetie?"

"Do you want me to be pregnant or something?"

A small smirk pulls on his mouth

"I am definitely not opposed to the idea"

You shake your head standing on your toes to peck his cheek but he turns his head to kiss you. Even after dating him for so long this small gesture leaves you blushing mess.

"I'll be in our room" you tell him and he nods still with the lovestruck look on his face. Once you leave the room he pinches his nose mumbling about canceling the order of baby-proof items.

Poor Rafayel doesn't know what hit him. Sure he has imagined having a family with you but didn't expect it to be so soon. What do you mean there might be a baby? He's the baby. There's going to be another person you'll love as much as you love him? He has to share now? This can't get worse. And as you look at him nervously he realises you're waiting for his answer.

"Late... okay, cool cool cool...  how late?"

"7 days"

He scoffs as if it's nothing.

"7 days is nothing, right? It's- uh did you take the test?"

"Yes-"

"It's negative, right?"

His hopeful tone makes you scrunch your eyebrows.

"It is" you say hesitantly "but it's still too early to be sure. I'll take another one tomorrow"

"Yeah, of course. Okay"  He seems to calm down

"Umm Rafayel... do you not want me to be-" you clear your throat "what if I'm pregnant?"

It just hit him that he's making this worse for you.

"Oh, cutie. It's not that. I want to have children with you... someday" he avoids your eyes "it's just... yourattentionwouldbeonthemallthetime"

You just give him a look that hints you have no idea what he just said. He sighs, giving up.

"Your attention would be on them and you'll cast me aside and I'm not ready for that" He admits blushing.

"Okay well, if I turn out to be pregnant..." you trail off not knowing, or not wanting, to finish your sentence.

"I'll be there, all the way. That's my kid too, ya know"

You crack a small smile

"You're weird"

"Well, you're not perfect either" he scoffs "nevermind, you are perfect"

You just laugh at him.

Xavier is so confused

"It's late. That's amaaaziiing....lyy bad..?" He tries to construct a sentence based on your expression but fails miserably "can you tell me what that means?"

"Well I don't know. It might be nothing serious but there's a chance I might be pregnant but we always use protection so I don't know how..." You sit with your head in your hands "I'm scared"

Xavier falling silent doesn't help your panic at all.

"Please say something"

"I'm going to be a father?"

You let out a confused laugh.

"I don't know. Probably not, but you might. I have an appointment with doctor Zayne tomorrow so maybe we'll know"

"I'm going to be a father"

You start to think you broke him

"Xavier... we don't know yet"

"Yeah, of course. But I would like to have a child with you"

He closes the distance, placing his hands on your hips

"Do you not want to..."

"I wasn't planning on it yet, but I'm not against it"

He smiles gently.

"Don't get your hopes up yet, though"

"Of course"

But as you leave the room you hear him saying "I'm gonna be a dad" to himself.

One evening, Caleb comes home and lets out a sigh when he enters kitchen.

"Okay, why is the breakfast I made for you still untouched in the refrigerator? We agreed you'd eat meals properly y'know?.. Pipsquak?" He calls out in the end when he receives no answer from you. He finds you in your bedroom sitting on the bed with your knees to your chest.

"What's wrong?" He's alert.

"My period is late"

"Oh my god" He starts laughing sitting beside you and pulling you into a hug. "No wayy, did you take a test? Are we gonna have little you and me running around? I'm definitely teaching them how to shoot a gun"

"Shut up for a minute" you grumble in his chest "I didn't take a test. It's only 5 days, I don't think test would show it if I was pregnant"

"I'll buy them anyway. Bunch of them, so you can take one everyday till it shows positive"

His ridiculous statement pulls a giggle out of you.

"Glad to know you're okay with it"

"Try ecstatic"

You look up at him and spot a mischievous grin on his face.

"You know... you'd be a milf"

That earns a smack on his chest

"Idiot"

"This idiot is going to be a father of your children, so be nice"

"I might not be even pregnant"

"I can take care of that"

He laughs at another smack he receives.

[clockwayswrites]

Danny in Metropolis Ch2/Part 1

You all voted 🌆- I deliver! masterpost this is a first draft, please no editing or concrit <3

Kon knocked on the door frame of Clark’s office. The door was open. It always was unless Clark was on the phone or working on some story he didn’t feel Kon and Jon should see (as if Kon wasn’t a superhero too). Clark must be editing at the moment with how he was frowning at the screen with his nose all crookedly scrunched up. The expression cleared with Kon’s knock, and Clark turned around with a little smile.

“Heya Kon, how was school today?”

Kon shrugged. School was fine, but it had been another day that Danny hadn’t eaten any lunch except for the apple sliced Kon had stubbornly nudged his way. “Actually, I kinda had something, like, tangentially related to school I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Sure of course!” Clark quickly cleared off the second chair in the room and set the reference books on the floor at his feet.

Kon had a feeling the books wouldn’t be in a neat stack for long. For being Superman, Clark could be incredibly clumsy. Kon thought it might come from having to be so careful with every little movement that it all had to come out somewhere.(Not that Kon understood or anything…)

Once Kon had actually crossed the threshold and took the seat, Clark smiled (a little small, a little nervous) and asked, “So what’s this tangential issue?”

Kon fidgeted with one of of his many rings, turning it on his finger. “I’ve mentioned Danny, right?”

Clark nodded. “The new student that you partnered up with for your English project. Are you having trouble working with him?”

“No,” Kon said quickly. “Danny’s good. He’s, um, great actually. I’m just worried about him.”

“Worried how?” Clark asked as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Kon couldn’t decided if he looked more like a reporter or a dad right then.

“He doesn’t eat anything at lunch,” Kon explained. The words came out in a rush. “I don’t think he trusts food from his house much. Seems his parents bring their research work home sometimes, or used to pretty badly. So, of course I’m worried about him eating dinner too! But like, at least lunch I can know about? And he doesn’t want to eat the school lunches which I totally get, they’re nasty. So, I just, was maybe wondering, especially if I helped out some, if I could bring a second lunch with me for him?”

“Sure, of course we can, Kon,” Clark said gently. Softly. “Do you know if he has any food allergies or preferences?”

“Um, yeah, I asked him and made notes,” Kon said. He was a bit thrown by the easy acceptance, but he wasn’t going to try to over analyze it. Instead, Kon pulled out his phone and over to the notes he’d made (hopefully stealthily) while they had worked on the project. “So, meat is iffy. He says it depends on the day. But tofu is out. Weirdly also no plain broths, jello, or Gatorade? Or at least not cherry or lime of those.”

Kon didn’t expect Clark to frown at the list. It was a bit weird, sure, but it wasn’t really hard to work around most of that. No meat was the hardest part, but there was always yogurt or PB&J.

“Has Danny been seriously ill?”

Kon looked up from his phone, startled. “What?”

“It’s just that broths, jello, and drinks like Gatorade are often prescribed for something called a ‘clear’ diet that people are put on for certain medical conditions, procedures, or hospital stays. Since Danny ate those things enough for them to be on a no list…”

“Oh." Kon looked back down at the phone in his hands. He took a deep breathe and made himself relax his grip before he broke another phone. “I think there’s been a few times that he’s almost fainted at school and he had a really nasty nose bleed once. You think he’s really sick?”

“I might just be reading into it too much,” Clark said with that ‘trying to soothe civilians’ smile of his.

It didn’t help.

“But that list is no problem at all! I’m happy to pack another lunch. It’s no more work really to do one more. But, you’ll need to pick up a lunch box for him this weekend so I have it for Monday, okay?”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll do that. Thank you, ah, Clark.” Dad.

“Of course, Kon. I’m happy to help you out with whatever you need.”

“Thanks, I’ll let you get back to work,” Kon said before he left quickly.

[dcxdpdabbles]

For Angel Brat, could we have some more focus on Bruce and Danny? Maybe Dick and Danny as well?

Bruce looks over to where Danny and Dick are each filling up their frozen yogurt cups. Dick's, is a vanilla and chocolate mix topped with various candies.

It seemed he had taken the open bar toppings as a personal challenge to drop a scoop of everything laid out into his container. Honestly, Bruce sometimes wondered if all of Dick's spontaneous flips were just a means to stay in shape, so he could keep eating the way he did.

Danny, on the other hand, had chocolate topped with only peanuts. His blue eyes- the only difference between him and Damian physically wise- kept wandering over longingly to offered sweeties but he was on a strict diet for his health.

Bruce can't believe that for all they have been searching for ways to keep Danny; they had neglected developing research for his illnesses. It felt a bitter taste in his mouth that they still could not find a cure for his boy.

Bruce Wayne was able to travel through time but make sure his son could run long periods without his heart or his lungs breaking down? Turns out he truly is just a mortal, and that was one of the worst things to realize when his son confidently bragged about being able to do two entire laps of their yard without nearly passing out.

He mentally did some calculations before stepping closer and touching Danny's shoulder. "I think you can have some chocolate chips."

His boy's face brightened in joy before he rushed to the counter, scooping the chocolate goods into his yogurt. It's another thing he noticed about Danny.

Unlike Damian, his youngest didn't bother hiding his emotions. He wore them like a badge of honor, letting them bleed across his face as quickly as he allowed sunlight to rest on them.

Bruce isn't sure if this is due to their different personalities- like the night and day of those two- or if it was because Danny had gotten out of the League when he did. Damian had broken him out to prevent him from being killed for his execution, but Bruce could not figure out where Danny had grown up.

His son's phrases and slight accent indicated midwestern. Bruce had no idea where, and every time he tried searching for him, the only thing that popped up was the already small rumors. Was this an effect of the timeline resetting? But why were there some posts and data on him left behind if it was?

It gave Bruce a headache; even Wally had no idea what was causing it. Wally, having been trapped in the Speed Force for so long, was the expert on it. Bruce shuddered to think of the alternatives if he couldn't figure out what was happening.

Bart had assured everyone that Danny was officially an anchor to their timeline, but if Wally's grim warnings that time was slowly erasing him- thus the lack of proof of childhood- then nothing they could do would save their son.

The worst part was not knowing if he would even be able to properly mourn him. Would Daniel Wayne vanish one day if no one remembered he was supposed to be there?

"Dick, I'm taking a pottery class. I'm going to make you something for your desk." Danny says, snapping Bruce out of his dark thoughts. Then he realizes he was moving on auto-polite, and the cashier was handing back his change.

He takes it with an empty smile turning to his children as Dick beams down at the youngest. "I can't wait to see it, Danny! I bet it will be the best one in class."

"I'll be the only one in the class," Danny tells him sheepishly, but a hint of sadness leaks into his voice. "I'm too sick to go to the center. Dad hired me a private teacher to come to the manor instead."

Bruce's heart squeezes painfully, and one quick glance at Dick's face lets him know his son feels the same way. Of course, nothing sows on his eldest face, but Bruce has known Dick for so long he can tell by the slight tightening around his eyes and the way the pain is tucked in his eyes.

Before he can think better of it, Bruce hears himself say, "I've always been interested in pottery. I'll see if the instructor wouldn't mind a second student."

"Really?" Danny's eyes are practically shining , which prompts Bruce to smile and shrug a shoulder.

"Yes, in fact I'm sure all of your siblings would love to take a class or two. Why don't you send a message in the group chat to see if they like to sign up?" He makes a motion that has Dick pulling out his phone to send in a different group titled "Keep our Angel."

His phone dings just a few seconds before Danny's, which the more petite boy takes as his own message coming through. Bruce never the less checks it anyway, swiping over to Dick's to read what he wrote

Dick: You are all taking a pottery class this Saturday. No excuse. Danny wants us there. I will hurt you if you miss.

His lack of emojis is bone-chilling. Bruce highly doubts any of his children will miss the event. And just as he predicted, Danny's smile grows wider when more dings can be heard coming from his phone.

"Everyone can make it!" He cheers, scrolling through the messages, looking like the world had just been promised to him. "This is going to be so much fun! Do you think the teacher won't mind?"

"I'm sure she will be happy for the raise." And if she wasn't, Bruce would quickly find someone who would. Money, to him, was never an issue.

Danny grins so brightly that Bruce wonders if he should invest in some sunglasses, but his heart does soar. Even if Dick has to reach out to adjust Danny's heart pump wires after they get stuck on the chair.

Effortlessly, Dick moves the attention away from the machine with a simple question. "Besides my gift, what else are you hoping to make Danny?"

"I'm going to make a vase for Bernard. Damian will help me buy him flowers and ask him out." Danny's words are accompanied by a brilliant blush, but he seems almost proud of his newfound courage to ask a boy three years his senior.

Did Bruce just get shot? He feels like he's been shot.

Dick's little spoon crumbles in his hold as his very famous and dangerous rage bleeds into his blue eyes. "Wow. That's so brave of you. By the way, where does Bernard live again?"

Bruce will have to postpone his deep dive into finding out where Danny was raised because if he takes his attention off of Dick for even a second, his eldest will kill that boy.

[libraford]

Oh God, I have small politics to laugh about.

People are so so SO afraid of cities.

The biggest city near us is around 900k people. Which in the grand scheme of things is not very big (Chicago is around 2 million, for reference.)

The guys I worked with at parks would look at the border of the town we work in, shake their head, and make remarks about 'the city.' They consider themselves a rural town.

This town has 40K people in it. It's not small. It's not rural. We've got yogurt shops and like five grocery stores.

'We want to preserve our rural way of life.'

This is a suburb.

Recently, a merger has happened with a nearby township of about 4K. If we didn't do this merger, then it was going to be annexed by the bigger city- which wanted to use it for housing development. So my town and this township reached an agreement to prevent that from happening. Only drawback is that the township will have slightly higher taxes.

The people of the township are

PISSED.

Because they don't want the 'big city' affecting their 'rural way of life.'

Understand. They mean the 40k town... to be the 'big city.'

Which certainly puts it into perspective, that the little township of 4k considers us an urban entity instead of what it is- a suburb. Massive blow to the identity of the guys I work with, who think they're the country.

Let's put that into perspective.

I used to live in a small mountain town where the nearest grocery store was an hour and 15 minutes down the mountain. It was 2 miles square. There were 600 people.

Which would be considered 'the city' compared to the 'census certified place' that I visit often for work, which has two gas stations, a fruit stand, a pharmacy, and a population of 342 people.

To get there, I drive through a town of 162, where there is a building with the words 'convenience store needed' painted on it.

Sometimes I have to take a detour through a village of 28.

I have thoughts and opinions about the 'rural identity' of suburban dwellers.

[thebiscuitlabryinth]

Does Black Raisin ever try to confront Healer about Plain Yogurt’s odd behavior? Since she doesn’t trust him and he doesn’t like her and both of them are keeping the peace only for Healer’s sake.

"Healer, can I speak with you for a moment?"

Healer turns his head towards the sound of Black Raisin's voice with a smile, his footsteps coming to a stop. He opens his mouth to reply as he hears Plain Yogurt's footsteps stop beside him, only to be cut off when Black Raisin's firmly adds, "Alone."

There's a shuffle of dirt from where Plain Yogurt stands, but Healer takes this request in stride, his gentle smile unwavering. "Of course." He turns his head to where he assumes Plain Yogurt to be. "I'll be right back. You can go ahead, if you want."

Plain Yogurt lets out a flat hum of acknowledgement and makes no audible move. Healer decides not to dwell on that, focusing on the guiding caw of Black Raisin's raisin crow and her retreating footsteps as he steadily follows her inside one of the other tents for privacy.

Healer hears the flap slip close behind him as Black Raisin exhales heavily, the swish of her cloak telling him she was turning to face him. Despite her reluctance, she gets right to the point. "Are you sure you can't reconsider letting him stay here?"

Healer's smile fades slightly as he adjusts his grip on his staff, and there is the smallest hint of exasperation in his tone when he replies, "You're bringing this up again?"

"Yes, because I still have my concerns." Black Raisin presses. "Why is he still here in the first place? We already have enough mouths to feed, and he must have somewhere to go back to."

"Well, I'm sure he does," Healer says mildly, "but if he wants to stay, why should we shun him? It may be another mouth to feed, but it's also another pair of hands to help."

Black Raisin sighs heavily. "Don't you find it suspicious?" She asks, somewhat pleading. "What could an outlander have to gain from staying with us? We have nothing to offer him!"

"Nothing but companionship, perhaps." Healer suggests, allowing himself another small smile. "Sometimes, that is enough for a Cookie."

"That's what worries me." Black Raisin mumbles, more to herself than Healer, but he hears it anyway. She pauses, then groans, raising her voice again. "You can't see the way he looks at things sometimes, Healer! At me. At you. He grins like he's won the prize draw, all smug and cunning."

"Which may be aggravating, but is not inherently malicious." Healer reasons lightly, inclining his head towards Black Raisin. "I must admit, you can be very fun to tease sometimes. I'm sure he doesn't mean any harm by it."

"You don't get it!" Black Raisin's voice grows harsher with frustration, gaining a desperate edge, and Healer's attempt at playfulness evaporates. Her voice plummets to something low, hushed. "He looks like a monster sometimes, Healer, I swear it. I keep seeing fangs, or claws, or eyes where they shouldn't be, for just a split second. And he insists on spending so much time with you - you're valuable to the village, you know? More than that, we- I care about you. Of course his presence worries me."

Healer sucks in a slow, sluggish breath, then sighs. He taps his way towards her, reaching his free hand out to rest gently on her shoulder, adjusting his grip to be more firm once he's found it.

"I appreciate the concern, Black Raisin, but I... think it may be misplaced. Plain Yogurt has been staying with us for quite a while now, hasn't he? And there hasn't been a single incident!" Healer reassures, using his own voice as a soothing balm. "You are a reliable protector, but you shouldn't allow your cautiousness to morph into paranoia. Closing your heart will do you very little good."

Black Raisin is silent for a moment.

"You trust me, don't you?" Healer continues, a little firmer in the hopes to bridge this gap. "I understand you don't trust him, but at least trust my judgement. Please."

Black Raisin is silent for a moment longer. Then she lets out a shuddering exhale, and Healer feels her shoulder slump under his hand. "...I'll do my best."

[try-set-me-on-fire]

Eddie drunkenly calls Buck from wine night, confesses some things. On ao3 here.

Eddie calls him at 11:34 pm, and it’s a Thursday, so that means a few things. It’s wine night, the biggest thing. It’s wine night, at Hen and Karen’s, and he knows those start around dinner time so Eddie’s got several hours of alcohol in him. It’s 11:34 pm and Buck got off work at 10:45, another thing, so it’s a toss up whether Eddie timed the call to when he was walking through the door (a feat possible after years of going back and forth between the station, the loft, and the Diaz house at all times of day and night) or if it’s just a drunken coincidence.

“Hello,” Buck answers the phone, dragging out the first half of the word, tossing his keys into the bowl on the counter.

“Buck,” Eddie says, voice bright and not very slurred, but he’s only said one word so far, and Buck sometimes secretly thinks he could probably say his name pretty steadily no matter the situation. Buck is pretty sure he could be all drunk or half dead and still be able to say Eddie just fine, anyway. “Hello. Are you home from, did you get home from work?”

Ah, so, somewhat drunk then. “Did indeed. You still at the Wilsons?”

“Did you, uh- was there fire?” Eddie sounds like he’s trying very hard to sound normal. Buck bites his lip against a snort.

“No fires. Just a half shift, remember. Pretty boring one, honestly.” I missed you probably isn’t fair to say, Buck covered the shift of his own volition, he could have been at wine night if he really wanted. But Donovan’s sister had a baby, what was he gonna do, not let the guy meet his niece? “Hope you had a better time.”

“Great time,” Eddie says, enthusiastic. “They had, uh, mini quiches.”

Buck grins at the empty room. “You’re a man who loves a mini quiche.”

A few seconds of whooshy silence where Buck assumes Eddie is nodding enthusiastically. “The- uh- they had the bacon kind. The kind, and with the- you know, there’s spinach? Can we go to Costco?”

“Sure,” Buck agrees, opening his admittedly pretty sparsely populated fridge. “Could use a grocery run.”

“And get the, get more quiches?”

Buck grabs a protein bar, smiling as fondly as he wants to with no one around to see him. “Yeah, Eds, we’ll get more quiches.”

“And you’ll take the spinach ones? And I get the good ones?”

Buck laughs. “The spinach ones are good. You can barely even taste the spinach, they’re just, like, warm and eggy.”

“Mmm,” Eddie says, doubtfully. “It’s not nice to lie, Buckley.”

“I’m not fucking lying,” Buck cackles. “Your spinach hatred is so unfair, what’d it ever do to you?”

“Taste bad,” Eddie says, adding a blegh sound for emphasis. “It’s like- like- it’s gross, I don’t believe you actually like it, actually. You just want to eat grown up food.”

Buck snorts. “Man, I hate to break it to you, we both turn 34 this year.”

“And I don’t feel like I have to prove that to anybody by eating nasty food,” Eddie says, nose definitely in the air. Buck shakes his head and takes a bite of the protein bar.

“Whatever, man. You just have to live with the fact that Chris is the one sneaking vegetables into your food.”

“You’re so mean. I’m not letting you have any of my actually good quiches.” Empty threat, they always end up sharing, both of them know it. “That’s not even what I called about. That’s not even-“ Eddie huffs so hard it sounds all crackly in Buck’s ear. “I called to tell you that I love you.”

Buck grins. Oh boy, affectionate drunk Eddie is here. He’d wondered just how much wine they’d got through and it seems like Eddie must be nearly a bottle in. “Aw, love you too, bud.”

“No,” Eddie says, and Buck can see the frown from here. “Buck. Listen. I’m in love with you.”

Oh. God. Oh god. “Uh-“ Buck says, stomach swooping all over the fucking place, “Uh- I don’t think this is a conversation we should be having while you’re-“

“Oh, fuck off, shut up. Shut up. It’s fine.”

“Eddie-”

“Buck,” Eddie says, in the annoyed voice he uses when Buck is trying to get him to eat yogurt with his fruit in the morning, or even a dastardly spinach quiche. “It’s fine. It’s fine. I knew you’d- why- stop it. Listen. I feel like this all the time. It’s stupid that I’ve never, like, I never just say this all the time. You’re, like-”

Eddie cuts himself off and Buck waits — sort of fearfully — for him to continue, but the silence keeps stretching on. Buck knows the other side effect of this level on the Eddie Diaz Drunkenness Scale is heightened distractibility, so he probably noticed a nice color or perhaps a bug. They spent a good twenty minutes hanging out with a grasshopper at Hen and Karen’s wedding towards the end of the night, because it was a lovely shade of green and a funny little guy. Oh god, Buck thinks again. I love this man. I love this man a ridiculous amount and we should absolutely wait to talk about it.

But: “You’re tall and you’re in my house,” Eddie says before Buck can do anything to stop him.

“I’m-” Buck glances around the loft. “Eds, I’m at my place.”

“What?” He sounds so indignant that Buck has to cover his mouth to hold a laugh in. “Why?”

“‘Cause I live here?”

“That’s stupid. You should live with me in my house.”

“Should I?” Buck asks, laugh escaping a little bit. “Also, wait, what does me being tall have to do with it?”

Eddie sighs, long and exasperated. “If you live with me you never have to go home and leave me because you’re already at my house. Your house. If you live with me you never have to go anywhere.”

“Never have to go anywhere?” Buck thinks he’s in shock, maybe, about all of this, but teasing Eddie is something that’s always easy to fall into. “I don’t have a job in this scenario?”

“Well you’d go to work. And other places. But you just come back to me all the time.”

“I’d like to come back to you all the time,” Buck says, choking a little on how simply it explains every ache in him. “Eddie-“

“And you’re tall because… it matters because you’re tall because…” Eddie’s voice is soft, his breathing is soft. Buck wonders where he is in Hen and Karen’s house. In a hallway, tucked away from everyone, the nice light from the stained glass lamp they have there warm on his face? On the back porch, out in the cool night air? Buck wants to tell him to come home, wants to make sure he’s warm. “I never had to look up at anybody before.”

“I’ve got like two inches on you,” Buck replies, but his voice is pretty quiet.

“It’s a big two inches,” Eddie says, just as soft. Then, also quiet but of an entirely different flavor, “That's- Sorry- that's what she said.”

“That's-” Buck snorts. “What-” and then giddy laughter bursts up out of him, baking soda and vinegar, foamy and ticklish. He cackles till he’s breathless, listening to Eddie’s responding chuckles over the line, and sinks down to the floor, back against the kitchen island. “You’re so fucking stupid.”

“I scored better on my certification exams than you.”

“That’s not even true!” Buck protests over Eddie’s continuing laughter. “Only in two categories!”

“Overall percentage was higher!” Eddie reminds him, as he does every time they have this argument.

“Well, I remember building construction and related hazards better than you and that’s written down on official paper somewhere.”

“Not fair,” Eddie says, as he always says. “You- you did- you built those. Unfair advantage.”

“I think you’re overselling the kind of experience I got in a few months working construction like a decade ago.”

“It wasn’t a decade when you took the tests,” Eddie points out. “Whatever. Nevermind. And I don’t want to sound like- you’re good at remembering things. You’re not stupid. I don’t want to sound like you are.”

Buck taps his boot against the sink counter in front of him. “I know. You’re not either.”

“I know,” Eddie says, soft again. “But your hands are big, and… you’ve got stubble sometimes, and…” he trails off into just breathing on the other end of the line for several long moments. “Buck,” Eddie whispers in sleepover voice. “Have you ever kissed a boy before?”

“Yeah,” Buck says, knowing Eddie knows this, but playing along anyway. “I have.”

“What's it like?”

Buck hums, closes his eyes. He thinks about the few guys he’d made out with but never followed home when he got to Los Angeles. Thinks about the room he’d crashed in with Connor in Peru, with it’s one mattress and both their clothes living in suitcases because they were too broke to buy any other furniture. He’s still got a t-shirt for a school he never went to, a few sizes too small. The way they hadn’t shared a room once they were in LA, the girls Connor started seeing. He thinks about John from the ranch who left town the next day. He thinks about high school, Len McGuinty under the bleachers in the summer before senior year, both of them giggling and half terrified and the way they’d pretended to barely know each other when school started back up. Hard jawlines and stubble and muscles and height. Having something, for however long you get to have it. Wanting something, very badly. He opens his eyes and it’s almost a surprise that he’s still in the loft. That he’s not at Eddie’s house. All the time in the world there wouldn’t be enough. “It’s good, Eddie. It feels good.”

“Buck,” Eddie breathes, shivery.

“I want to live in your home all the time, and never have to go anywhere,” Buck says, repeats. “I’ll kiss you, if you want.”

“Buck-”

“I’ll love you, if you want.” Eddie is still drunk, Buck tries to remind himself. But it might actually kill him not to say it out loud when Eddie had said he feels like this all the time. How could he not say he feels like this all the time, too? “I’ll love you back. I love you back. I’ll eat all the spinach quiches for you.”

“Buck,” Eddie says, and Buck doesn’t know what expression is on his face, doesn’t know what look is tied to this tone of voice. Is desperate to find out. Quiet down the line for a few moments. And then: “It’s late.”

Buck pulls his phone away from his ear for a second to check the time. Nearly midnight. “Yeah.” His hands feel clammy. It was too much. They should have waited to talk. Eddie wants out now, and that’s fine. Buck will —somehow, skin of his teeth — find a way to be fine with that.

But: “I want to go home,” Eddie says. “Buck. Come and take me home.”

“And then-”

“And then stay.”

“Okay,” Buck gets to his feet, tosses the half eaten bar in the trash. Eddie’s house has food. His home has things to eat.

“Okay,” Eddie says, confident now, everything decided, everything for sure. “I’ll see you soon.

“Minutes,” Buck says, grabbing his keys, half running to the door. “I’ll be there in minutes.”

“Minutes,” Eddie says back. And Buck can hear his smile.

[trippinsorrows]

looking through your eyes + thirty three

authors note: last chapter before shit starts to hit the fan....

cw/tw: fluff and angst

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

cast+ masterlist +story playlist + taglist request form

words: 16k (diabolical)

“Baby!” The sound of Solana’s voice somehow travels through the space of their massive home and reaches the ears of Roman right as he’s finished yet another bench press. “I’m home!”

Naturally, Dulce, who’d been calmly laying on the padded mat watching him workout, lifts her head. Her ears perk up and her tail wags at hearing the voice of her favorite person in the whole world.

Roman chuckles, taking the towel to wipe off the sheen of sweat on his forehead. “Mom’s home.”

Dulce barks in celebration and runs out said room before turning back around, standing in the doorway, clearly waiting for him. She barks again as he wraps the towel around the back of his neck. He’s obviously taking too long. “I’m coming,” is his response. Roman allows his pet to guide him through the turns and hallways of their palatial home until they reach the living room where Solana is walking in while holding a grocery bag.

Naturally, Roman rushes over to her, relieving her of the bag. “I told you I don’t want you lifting on things, Sol.” He places the bag that only has a pack of napkins in it on the counter, seeing security carrying in the rest of the bags. 

“It’s just one bag, Ro,” she defends, crouching down to pet Dulce. Smiling, Solana stands up and walks over to him, leaning up and kissing his cheek. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he responds, hand on her hip. Prepared to ask how she’s feeling, Roman is momentarily distracted in realizing security is still bringing in groceries, their counters and island filled with brown paper bags. “Sol….how much food did you get?”

She looks around and then back at him. “The usual.”

His bushy brow lifts. “This is the usual?” He knows it’s not, solely because he usually goes grocery shopping with her these days and only didn’t today because she’d snuck out their bed early in the morning to do so on her own.

She shrugs. “Okay, maybe….maybe a little more than the usual.” He’d argue it’s a lot more than that. “But, baby, you eat a lot.” One suggestive look, and she’s blushing, slapping his chest. “Stop it.” He chuckles and kisses her temple. She’s so easily flustered sometimes. “I just—I had to get more, because I’m gonna cook you up some meals for while I’m gone.”

Roman sighs. “Sol….”

“I got you some of your favorite snacks, too,” she shares, walking away to start emptying bags. He moves to stand beside her, assisting as she shows him all of his guilty pleasures, the things that make him have to spend a little extra time in the gym. All worth it though.

Solana is loading up the drawer in the fridge with his favorite yogurts she’d also purchased when he pulls something from the bag he was emptying. “Sol….” She turns to look at him, to see the item in his hand. “What is this?”

She gasps, almost happily. “Your new vitamins.”

Naturally, he’s scowling. “Vitamins?” Roman briefly reads the writing on the bottle. One-A-Day for Men. “I don’t take vitamins.”

“Well, you’re gonna start.” She answers so matter-of-factly, closing the fridge door, arms crossed. “I was talking to Dr. Michaels—”

“Since when do you talk to him?”

“We do weekly check-ins,” she shares casually, explaining, “I let him know how you’re doing and if you’re taking your meds, and he lets me know if you’re attending appointments and getting your blood work checked like you should.”

Roman is partially surprised, but he shouldn't be. He shouldn’t be, because he freely sighed an ROI for his wife to communicate with Michaels regarding his care. Something that felt only right in the name of wanting to be more open with her, but right now, it’s seeming like it’s biting him in the ass just a bit.

“And he told me that he’s been trying to get you to take vitamins for years.

“He has.” Roman won’t deny that. It’s the truth. “And for years, I’ve been ignoring his ass.”

Solana frowns. “Well, not anymore.” She announces, walking over to him and pointing to the benefits listed on the packaging. “Dr. Michaels said this is the best brand for you, and it’s only once a day, so you can take it when you take your blood pressure medication.”

Roman scratches his beard, reminding calmly, “Solana, you know I don’t like taking pills.”

“Yes, but I also know that you need to,” she counters, crossing her arms. “Lots of people take vitamins. I take them. Well, now I take my prenatals, but before that, I took a daily supplement.”

“That’s different, Sol.”

“How?” She presses, scowling a bit. “How is it different?”

“You’re pregnant. You have to take that shit,” he answers, placing the bottle back in the bag. “I don’t have to take anything.”

Roman prepares to move to another bag when Solana reaches past him and pulls the bottle right back out. “Roman, you are taking these pills.”

He’s taken back by both the conviction in her voice and the determination written all over her face. “Solana, I don’t want—”

“Roman Tamasa Reigns, I don’t care what you want,” she cuts him off, the Tribal Chief’s eyes widening ever so softly as she uses his full name for the first time ever as well as the quick, rushed, wordy rant she goes on in Spanish before closing her eyes. Solana takes a deep breath, switching back to English and handing him the bottle. “You are taking these vitamins, okay?”

It’s a strange thing. Roman has experienced many sides of his wife. Anxious Solana. Scared Solana. Depressed Solana. 

Suicidal Solana.

But, he can’t say he’s ever seen an angry Solana, and she’s most definitely angry.

It’s why he wordlessly accepts the bottle, not wanting to say anything to further upset her. He just places it on the counter and goes back to emptying bags when he hears it. 

A sniffle.

Turning back to her, Roman is once again taken back. 

Why the fuck is she crying? Wasn’t she just angry with him? What the fuck is even happening right now?

“Baby–” He goes to reach for her to comfort her, though he’s not quite sure just what he’s comforting her for, cause again, why is she even crying right now? “I’m sor—”

“I went to the grocery store, and I got all these—these groceries for you—” She hiccups, motioning around their big kitchen. “And you can’t even do this one thing for me.” She breaks down crying into her hands, and God forgive him, but Roman’s first reaction isn’t to tuck her into him and console her.

His first instinct is what the fuck because she was literally just upset with him, and now she’s crying over some damn vitamins?

The fuck?

Regardless of being confused as all the outdoors, Roman welcomes her into his chest, apologizing, “I’m sorry. Please don’t cry.”

“You don’t care,” she cries into him.

“I do care, Solana,” he tries to save face, though not sure just how she became so upset so quickly. “I’m sorry, I just—”

“I’m just trying to help you,” she cries heavier, and as awful as Roman feels about it, he’s having a hard time taking her serious. Roman has held his wife as she cried into him, sobbed into him so violently that her body jolted from the intensity. 

This….this feels different.

It is different.

An overreaction, but that’s uncharacteristic for her personality. Something that doesn’t define her, but it’s absolutely what’s happening right now. Regardless, her crying, overreaction or not, is something he doesn’t like, so he has to make it right.

“I know you are, Sol, and I’m sorry.” She sniffles, coming down a bit. It’s then he offers, “I’ll—I’ll take the vitamins, okay?” Anything to just get her to stop. “Alright?”

She looks up at him, pouting almost. “You promise?”

No. “Yes.” 

More sniffling as he wipes away her tears. “Okay.” More sniffling as she hiccups, “I think—I think I’m gonna go lay down.”

“Yes,” he says it much too quickly, way too eager for her to just go…..calm down or something. “Go take a nap. I’ll finish putting everything away.”

“Okay.” She nods, walking over and picking up Dulce who Roman swears looks just as confused as he feels. “Come on, baby.”

Roman waits until Solana is out of the kitchen and up the stairs before leaning back against the kitchen counter, lost as fuck over what just happened. 

—------

“And then she just started crying.” Roman’s retelling is borderline dramatic as he sits forward on the sofa, legs spread, hand gestures included with his storytelling.

Lita lifts a brow. “Crying?”

“Yes.”

She makes a sound, asking, “so what’d you do?”

“I told her I would take the vitamins, and it seemed to calm her down, then she went for a nap.” Roman slaps his hands on his thighs, leaning back. “But, then I went upstairs a little while later, and she wanted to have sex.”

“Did you?”

“Of course.” An easy answer that’s always the same. “But, I don’t understand how she went from being upset with me, to being sad and crying, to being horny and wanting to fuck.” Roman crosses his arms, a thought crossing his mind. “Maybe it’s her medication. She might need an adjustment.” He looks at Lita, asking, “you think I should talk to Stratus?”

Lita takes a breath, trying to figure out how to word her response for what’s inarguably been her most challenging yet interesting client ever. “Roman, how much do you know about pregnancy? About pregnant women?”

“I know a couple things.” There’s an almost insulting tone to his voice, like he’s confused as to why she would even ask him such a thing. “Why?”

Lita sucks her teeth. “Cause I think it’s time you read up on what pregnancy does to women in all areas. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally.” She shrugs, sharing, “what you’re describing is pretty typical for pregnant women sometimes. The hormonal changes that occur often result in mood swings. That’s what that was. She was having a mood swing.”

At that, the Tribal Chief sits forward once more. “You’re telling me that shit was normal?”

Lita chuckles. “Pretty much.”

Roman looks off, like his whole world has been turned upside down. Like he was expecting any other answer than what he’s been given. “Well, when does it stop?”

“When is she due?”

“May,” he answers, a small sense of pride laid underneath his tone. 

Lita senses it but tucks it away for a later time. “Then, May.”

Once more, his eyes are widening. “You mean she’s going to be this way until she gives birth?”

Lita has to hold back her laughter as she takes some more notes while explaining, “nine times out of ten, the mood swings will eventually subside, but I think you’re better served learning how to effectively communicate with her and respond to her when she gets that way versus waiting around for her hormones to level out.” 

“What do you mean?”

Lita sighs. “It’s obvious that you were bothered by the abrupt changes in her mood.”

The sneer on his face is accompanied by a harsh rebuff. “I wasn’t bothered.”

“Then why are we discussing it right now?” Silence. Lita also sits forward, deciding to share some of the man tidbits she’s noticed about Roman in their time working together. “I’ve noticed you are very against saying anything that could be perceived as remotely negative or, God forbid, someone else saying anything remotely negative about your wife.” Lita has a good guess Roman’s response would be physical in the event of that second one. “And I know, a lot of that comes from how protective you are of her. Some of that codependency as well. But, two truths can exist in the same universe where she’s allowed to say or do something that upsets or bothers you and you can bring it to her attention. It doesn’t make you a bad husband.” 

Roman’s gaze and focus is on the wall to the side of him instead of the woman in front of him. “I don’t want to argue with her. She has….trauma with that.”

“And, I understand that, but you also have trauma. Whether you want to admit it or not is fine, I’ll respect that. Wholly. But, part of your struggle is opening up about your feelings with people, which again, I know is not for good reason, though it’s painfully obvious that your wife is a safe person for you, so if you were to open up to someone, it would be her.” More silence. “And discussion doesn’t have to equate an argument.”

When he still says nothing, Lita continues, “and yes, know that you have problems controlling your temper, but I also know that if there’s one person you’d control it with, it’s your wife.”

She'd bet her life on that.

“I don’t want to be put in that position,” Roman finally speaks, voice even but also filled with something almost heavy. “They last time we argued…..” he trails off, a memory returning. “It just wasn’t good. She doesn’t need that stress with her pregnancy.”

Lita looks at him, makes note of his nonverbals, sees that this wall will take a little longer to chip away at. 

“How are you doing with that anyway?” He looks at her, prompting her to clarify. “The pregnancy. You haven’t really touched on it in our past two sessions.”

Roman thinks about her question, considers how he wants to answer and how honest he wants to be. “I think….I think it’s getting….better.”

“Better, how?”

Again, more thinking. “I don’t….I don’t feel as unsure about it.” 

Lita nods slowly, tentatively questioning, “what do you feel?” To cut some of the tension, she gestures with her thumb. “You want the feeling wheel?”

Roman instantly scowls. “I’m not using that damn thing.” Lita chuckles, and though he won’t admit it, he appreciates it. Appreciates her trying to make this a little less uncomfortable. “I don’t….I don’t want to say excited.” And maybe he does, but something holds him back, prevents him from owning that. “But, something….something like that.”

Lita adjusts in her seat, paraphrasing. “The idea of being a father is becoming less abstract and more concrete.” She shrugs, offering, “it’s starting to feel more real, because it is real.”

Lita’s right. Roman won’t verbally acknowledge it, but she’s correct. Every appointment he attends with Solana, every time he opens up the app to see where she is, where the girls are, developmentally speaking, makes it all the more real. 

And while there’s a part of that that’s terrifying as fuck, because he’s still lost on so many things and has so much to learn, there’s still that part of him that doesn’t feel as unsure, like he said. He feels a form of excitement. 

He is excited.

“Yeah,” is all he offers, though something tells him Lita has a good mind where his head is, because despite her being annoying as fuck sometimes with her probing questions that end up landing him right where she wants him, she’s effective. And, they work well together. 

She meets him where he is, and he’s grateful for that.

Doesn’t mean he’s just gonna spill his heart out to her. No. Fuck that. He’ll share as and when he pleases.

“She’s three months, right?”

“Yeah,” Roman answers and starts to leave it at that, but some small part of him, a part he doesn’t quite understand, offers. “Twins….twin girls.”

At that, Lita’s eyes widen. “Well, shit, double trouble? And girls, too?” She scoffs, grabbing her Stanley to take a sip. “Yeah, buddy, you might want to start reading up now.”

Roman scowls. “What do you mean?”

“You’re struggling as it is with your wife’s mood swings while pregnant, just wait till those girls hit puberty and wifey is either pregnant again, so you’re getting it from all ends.”

That sounds like something out of a nightmare, but there’s something else about her wording that he’s focused on.

Almost suspicious, Roman inquires, “did she tell you about all these kids she wants?”

“Wait, what?” Lita’s visible confusion at his question looks and feels authentic, Roman not getting a sense that she’s playing dumb. “You know my policy, I don’t talk to anyone unless you authorize it. Even wifey.” He does recall her saying that, but he also knows he signed an ROI so she could share information with Solana, and since his wife seems to be in cahoots with his doctor, why not the therapist as well? “She wants more kids after this?”

Roman nods, crossing his arms once more. “Three more.”

Lita’s eyes widen. “She wants how many more?”

Roman pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s what I fucking said.”

Lita nods to herself, shrugging, “well….that woman clearly loves you.” She then asks, “what about you?”

“What about me?”

Without skipping a beat, she asks directly, “do you want more kids after this?”

A fair thing to be asked, but something Roman, in true Roman fashion, answers almost indirectly. Sort of. “I think we should be focusing on this pregnancy before talking about more kids.”

“You know that’s not what I asked you, right?” Yes, he absolutely does. If only he cared. “Look….it’s okay for you to not have an answer, but based on what you’ve shared with me in the past regarding your thoughts and feelings on kids, if I had to take a guess, I’d say you’re sca—”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Roman’s interruption cuts deep, his entire disposition almost doing a 180. Like whatever almost lighthearted tone that was there before is gone now. Replaced with something almost cold. “Change the subject. Now.”

And Lita sees this, sees the shifts, knows why said shift happens, but she respects it. Respects him. Respects that he’s not ready to go there just yet. “Okay.” And she does change the subject, asking, “any plans for while the wife is away?”

—-------

“Okay, I labeled everything for you. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, snack, and dessert,” Solana’s explanation is accompanied by her holding the refrigerator door open as she points to the generous amount of clear containers. She pulls one out that, sure enough, reads breakfast. “You just have to see which one you want.” She gasps, bumping the door closed as she moves over to the other side of the kitchen. “I should have labeled what each meal is.”

“Solana, it’s fine. I don’t need all that.”

She’s not listening, too busy using the sharpie she grabbed out of the pen holder on the counter to label the container in her hand. “I’ll do it before we leave. I don’t want you accidentally picking something thinking it’s something else.”

“Sol—”

“I also picked up your blood pressure medicine from the pharmacy this morning, cause you were running low, so you should be good with your meds.” She looks up, adding firmly, “and your vitamins.” Roman pushes back his scowl. Those damn vitamins. “And if for some reason, you get through all the meals in the fridge, I have some in the freezer as well.”

“Solana—”

“Dulce should be good with her food, too, but I did pick her up some of those treats she likes, so maybe give her one with her dinner once or twice?” The question is more informative than anything as Solana moves back over to the fridge to grab another container that she doesn’t need to label. “Oh my gosh,” she stops, slapping her forehead. “I forgot to do that last load of laundry for you.” She shakes her head, placing the bowl and pen on the counter. “Let me just go do that right—”

Roman moves quickly, using his arm to block her path, forcing her to finally look at and listen to him. “Solana.” Her attention on him, he doesn’t waste this opportunity to point out the real reason behind her almost frantic-like behavior. “I’ll be fine.”

He sees it. The concern that flashes in her gaze and how her shoulders drop. “I just…..I just want to make sure you’re okay while I’m gone.” Her hands on his chest, the truth continues to make itself known. “I haven’t been away from you since….” She doesn’t say it, but she doesn’t need to.

Since Fetu passed.

Solana has been with him, by his side, supporting and loving him x10 since Fetu passed. 

“I know,” he mutters, reaching up to push some of her hair back, eyes briefly focused on her tattoo. “But, I’ll be fine, Sol. I can take care of myself. I’ve done it for a long time.”

“But, you don’t have to anymore,” she counters, softly. “You have me. I—I can take care of you. I can make sure you’re good.”

“And, I am, Sol. Largely because of you.” He kisses her forehead, reminding, “but you also have to take care of yourself. That’s why I’m letting you go.”

Letting her doesn’t feel like the right word, but in the moment, it’s the best he has. Because he would never want her to feel like she needs his permission to do anything in life. She’s had enough of that shit from men to last her a lifetime, but there is some say he has with her comings and goings due to her being pregnant with their children.

For safety reasons, he has to have a say.

“I know,” she murmurs, moving to hug him. “I’ll only be gone a couple days.”

Roman doesn’t say anything, but a part of him, the selfless part of him hopes it’s longer than that. Solely because of the other plan she has for while she’s in Mexico on her “girls trip.”

Paloma.

She plans to tell Paloma who she really is.

And from that, Roman hopes she gets to spend time with the closest living, remaining connection she has to her mother.

Solana deserves that. 

Especially…..especially if she ends up having to go and/or stay even longer for a different reason.

A very different reason.

“I know.” He’ll play along. Go with what’s needed to make her feel most comfortable. Roman wraps his arms around her, reiterating, “we’ll be fine.” He looks over at Dulce who lays in her bed in the living room—she must have one in every damn room at this point—sleeping peacefully. “She’ll probably sleep the whole damn time anyway.”

Solana giggles into him and slaps his arm. “Stop it.” 

Roman holds her for a couple more minutes before realizing time is not on their side, and they need to get moving. “Come on.” He lightly slaps and squeezes her ass, invoking another giggle. It makes him smile a little. “We gotta be out of here soon.”

At that, she steps away, frowning. “Why do we have to leave again so early? I told the girls to be at the airport around 2”

Roman’s answer is right away, even if it’s something he comes up with on the spot. “I’m not trying to be around your annoying ass friends, Solana.” 

As expected, she rolls her eyes, protesting lightly, “Roman, my friends aren’t annoying, and Bayley, even Melina, are technically family.”

“Don’t remind me,” he mutters, following her as she leads them upstairs.

Solana being Solana absolutely makes sure to start up that last load of laundry. She also goes through at least two more lists of unnecessary things she did for him to “help” him out while she’s gone. And while Roman does consider it unnecessary, he’s appreciative. 

Appreciative of her and all she does for him, all that she is for him. 

“What about this?” Solana asks him as they sit in the back of the SUV, on the way to the airport. It’s a design option for kitchen counters. A beautiful, unique granite.

“It’s nice,” he responds. “But, Sol, you already know I don’t care what goes in the kitchen. It’s whatever you want.”

She looks up at him. “I know, but this house is for us, so your input matters, too, Ro.”

He doesn’t disagree, though there’s certain parts about said house they plan to build that he wouldn’t mind being for just her. Like the kitchen, cause Lord knows he’ll never be in there cooking and baking like she does. “The kitchen is your space though. Now our bedroom, yeah, I want some say.”

A crafty smile forms on her pretty face. “So, you don’t want to paint it pink?”

“Solana, don’t fucking play with me like that,” he mutters, eyes closed, pinching the bridge of his nose. She giggles and leans further back into him, clearly finding humor in his distress. “It’s bad enough you keep talking about all these damn kids you want.”

“That I’m going to have,” she corrects, like that shit is supposed to make sense. Like he’s supposed to be okay with this plan she has to be pregnant every year or something. 

“Solana.” He has to talk some sense into this girl. Is this another pregnancy thing? He makes a note to ask Lita about it in their next session. “I need you to be serious with me. Do you know how stressful it would be to have five children?”

Massively, insanely stressful, for maybe more reasons than he's willing to currently acknowledge...

She pouts and responds so casually. “It wouldn’t always be stressful.” She turns more to look at him, hand resting comfortably on his abs. “And, if we’re going to have this massive house, we need to fill it up….”

“With furniture,” he supplies. “We can fill it up with furniture. Not a bunch of kids.”

That’s clearly not the answer she wants, as evidenced by the scowl on her face. “I want more kids, Roman.”

“And, I told you we can have one more after the girls, but anything beyond that, Solana—”

“I’m getting my kids, Ro, and that’s final.” Solana not only cutting him off, but doing so with attitude is something the Tribal Chief could have and would never bet on, but that’s exactly what’s happened. His sassy ass wife redirects her attention back to her scrolling on that red app she likes that has a lot of pictures and proceeds like she didn’t just cop an attitude. 

“Solana,” he finds himself saying, sitting up a bit. “You—”

“We’ll talk about it later.” Another interruption. Less sassy. Still an interruption, nonetheless. 

There’s a revolving door of emotions in that moment. At first, he’s annoyed, which is significantly tamer than what he’d feel if this was anyone else speaking to him this way. Roman’s killed for lesser offenses.

Then there’s slight amusement, because his 5’0 wife hitting him with the attitude of someone his height and stature is the last thing anyone would expect. 

Followed up with a slight tightening in his pants, because there’s something undeniably attractive about Solana being assertive. About standing on business. He might not agree with what she’s standing on, but he damn sure respects it. 

And then finally, he arrives at the largest and most lasting emotion. Proud. Roman feels proud of his wife. 

It’s still hard for him to grasp the fact that this is the woman he met all those months ago who could barely withstand more than 30 seconds of eye contact. Who was terrified of him. Terrified of the world that had only been unkind to her.

Now, she sits before him, openly going against him without any sign of anxiety or fear. And while he now knows her pregnancy hormones are playing a large role in the oscillation of her emotions, it doesn’t negate the fact that even before becoming pregnant, the Solana he knew then is not the same Solana he knows now. 

Stronger in every way. A tremendous and beautiful growth. 

Roman finds himself dipping his head to kiss her temple. “I’m proud of you,” he murmurs, finger moving up and down her upper arm. “Extremely fucking proud of you.”

And even that seems not enough to adequately describe it. 

However, the small smile on Roman’s face is wiped away when she looks up at him and asks with a mischievous smile. “Enough to have three more kids?”

“Solana.”

She laughs once more, finding delight in his misery. Roman sighs loudly as his wife leans up and strokes his beard, kissing his cheek, “thank you, mi amor.”

Roman still hasn’t really picked up much of Spanish outside a couple words, but there’s something universal about her statement. 

Love. 

The rest of the drive is relatively quiet, Solana showing Roman a few more photos of ideas she has for the kitchen when they arrive at the airport. Naturally, Roman slides his expensive sunglasses over his eyes and exits the car first so he can open Solana’s door for her.

He holds her hand as she steps out and tugs up those tight ass pants that have him forcing to ignore the recoil of her fat ass with said adjustment. The transition is aided by her confused countenance at the jet that is not the one they took last time. She turns to him with a frown. “You got a new jet?”

“I did,” he confirms, lifting his sunglasses up, setting them atop his head. “But not for me.” Solana’s eyes start to widen as he shares, “it’s for you.” 

Hands planted over her mouth, she looks in shock between himself and the private jet with pink lining, pink steps descended to reveal a glimpse of the interior that also has shades of pink. “Roman, no.”

“I don’t really like the idea of your dumbass friends in my space,” he shares, moving toward her, hands on her waist. “Plus, if I’m away on work, and you decide to fly down to Mexico, you need transportation.”

She scoffs, offering so innocently, “But, I could just book a flight, Ro.”

“That’s not fucking happening.” It’ll be a cold day in hell when Roman ever allows his wife to fly commercial. Absolutely not. 

Solana is still very much in a state of disbelief, but her smile grows wider as she exclaims with all of the shock. “I can’t believe you got me a whole private jet.” Giggles erupt from her as she suddenly throws herself into him, arms wrapped around his neck. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

It’s hard for Roman to not smile, feeling her immense love and appreciation for something that seems so simple to him. Maybe not in price, not that that’s a factor, but just how overtly grateful she is for anything he does for her. 

Her spirit is so pure. 

“You’re welcome,” he mutters, kissing her temple and lightly slapping her ass. Solana is back on the ground, looking up at him with undeniable excitement, when he asks, “you wanna see it?” Light laughter at how she nods rapidly and takes his hand, guiding him toward the jet. 

Roman feels a bit silly feeling relieved almost at how Solana “ooohs” and “awwws” at the interior of her private jet, predominantly pink and white, amenities based upon her and what he knows about her. Roman is good at a lot of things, including reading people in terms of their likes and dislikes. But, there’s always a small part of him that’s unsure of himself when it comes to doing and getting things for his wife. 

A fear of letting her down.

Of disappointing her.

Something he hasn’t felt or worried about in a long time. 

“I love it so much, Roman,” she says after they finish the tour. She’s got her arms back around his neck, that beautiful smile dimming just a bit. “Are you sure you’re gonna be okay while I’m gone?”

Roman chuckles. “I’m sure. You need to do this, Sol.”

“I know,” she sighs. Roman soothingly moves his hands up and down her sides. “I just….you know I don’t like being away from you.”

He knows. The same way he doesn’t like being apart from her either, but that’s neither here nor there.

“Your life can’t revolve around me, Solana.” A gentle reminder. Necessary, too, perhaps. 

“But, you’re such a big part of my life,” she replies, voice soft, eyes focused on his shirt as she lightly pulls at the material. “Not being around you feels…..weird….wrong.” 

Roman knows Solana is codependent when it comes to him. The same way he realizes he’s codependent with her as well. But, he’s been reminded of it even more in the past few weeks with how involved she wants him in all the things, which is fine and normal, especially as it pertains to the pregnancy. But, it’s the not knowing what she would do without him that’s starting to have him concerned. 

Especially if the situation arises where she doesn’t have a choice.

He’d mentioned it to Gail, asked her to work with Solana on that, but so much has happened between now and then that he wouldn’t be surprised if they haven’t even gotten to it yet.

A disservice. Understandable, but a disservice, nonetheless. 

“Everything will be fine, Solana.” He kisses her forehead, reminding, “you already know if you need me, just call me, and I’ll be there.”

And there’s the hard part. There are times, like this, where he sees how independent and capable she’s become that he thinks she’ll be okay. Where he thinks she’ll be able to handle a separation, if necessary. But, it’s not consistent, not reliable, and that’s where his biggest issue comes to play.

Then there’s also the role he plays. Roman knows he makes himself always available to her, and in some ways, that’s also his comfort. It…..bothers him to not be available for her if she needs something. 

And if he’s being honest with himself, that largely stems from that night. The night she tried to take her own life. 

The night he wasn’t there, and she needed him.

He won’t risk that again. 

He’s terrified to risk that again.

—---------

It’s a fun time from the minute the ladies all board the jet, to the conversations that transpire, but most definitely when they all arrive to Roman and Solana’s home in Isla Mujeres. Solana considered asking Roman if they could rent something instead, as she knows how much he values their space being their space, but he shocked her by recommending they just stay at the home he purchased for them.

Her guess would be it’s because it’s not their main home, the space only being used every so often. Only once, really, since Solana’s birthday trip back in July.

“This is so nice!” Mickie shouts from the top of the stairs as she and Cameron claim a room. “I love being friends with rich people!”

Solana smiles as Afia shakes her head. “That one is interesting, for sure.”

“Very,” she giggles. One thing Solana was a bit nervous about was inviting Afia, not because she didn’t want her to attend. Hardly. What she was most nervous about was Afia not meshing well with the rest of the ladies who had already met before and vibed well enough. However, that concern was quickly squashed as Solana realized her sister-in-law’s former career of seamlessly blending in just about anywhere is a skill that’s stuck with her.

It didn’t take Afia long to join in with the rest of the gang. So much so that she’ll be sharing a room with Melina. Bayley and Naomi will be rooming together. 

Apparently, no one wanted to share a bed with Solana because, “girl, we know Roman be turning you every way but loose in that bed. We’re good.”

And while her face burned with all of the embarrassment, she couldn’t deny it. That same bed is the same bed her shackles were broken in the most beautiful, memorable manner, and in some ways, she would prefer to keep her space with her husband a space for just them. 

After everyone gets settled into their rooms, there’s almost a universal agreement that the first stop needs to be by the beach. Solana shouldn’t be surprised that arriving at said beach with her friends, via the private entrance from their house, that her husband made arrangements similar to last time to where it’s almost “reserved” just for them.

Something she understands a little bit better this time around. While Roman is not present for this trip, Bautista is, as well as her upped security detail, her husband has obviously setting up parameters to ensure her safety during her stay. For her and for their babies.

Solana feels the most grateful to have such a wonderful, protective man to call her husband.

It’s why she not only has Mickie take some photos of her adorned in her bathing suit, but she also takes some selfies of herself at the beach. Photos that she nervously shares with him, only to receive the most validating and steamy response that makes most sense for her husband. 

Roman: Fuck. 

Roman: You’re making me regret letting your fine ass leave, baby.

Solana: 🙈🙈🙈

Solana: I’ll be home before you know it, papa bear. 🥰

Roman: Not soon enough.

Roman: Send me more photos while you’re there. 

Roman: Can use them for….purposes.

Solana: Roman! 😭

Despite Solana feeling completely flustered at her husband’s dirty intentions for her photos, she absolutely makes a mental note to share any selfies taken during this trip.

And something tells her there’s going to be a fair share. 

“Oh my goodness, are you texting Roman?” Bayley asks, walking over, standing in front of the blanket that Solana is laid on top of. “Tell him to get a fucking life. You’re busy.”

Solana frowns, locking her phone and placing it beside her. “Bayley, be nice.”

She rolls her eyes. “I said I’d try. Shit takes time.”

“Leave her alone,” Mickie pouts, her and Cameron waiting for their sunscreen to set in before entering the beautiful, blue waters. “At least she has a man.”

“I thought you were talking to—”

“Fuck him!” Mickie interrupts Melina, lifting up her middle finger for dramatic effect. “That’s what I get for messing around with someone named Kevin who has a pot belly.”

“Mickie!” Cameron scolds, shaking her head. “That’s not nice. He seemed like a good guy.” 

“Yeah, I thought you liked him,” Solana chimes, remembering their conversations via group chats and group facetimes where Mickie practically raved about the guy she’s been seeing. 

“He was. Too good.” Mickie shrugs, picking at her fingers. “He wanted to settle down eventually.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” Afia’s question is posed with pure curiosity versus judgment. A sort of judgment Solana only detects on the face of Naomi who’s been abnormally quiet for the whole conversation. 

Has been quiet since meeting at the airport, now that she thinks about it. 

Mickie leans back on the palm of her hands, answering with a simple, “that’s not what I’m looking for.”

“What are you looking for?” Bayley inquires, coming to sit beside Solana, tiring of standing, the sun beaming down on her back.

“I don’t know.” It’s an honest answer, something almost indecipherable flashing in Mickie’s eyes that Solana is almost sure only she, Cameron, and Melina notice. Treatment. It’s a similar look that Mickie would get when they were in treatment. When she was thinking back on something else. 

Something much darker. 

Solana clears her throat, drawing attention to herself as she suggests, “we should all take a picture together.”

“Hell yeah!” Bayley is standing up yet again, as the rest of the women also express some level of excitement for the photo.

“I’ll take em’,” Naomi offers, standing and brushing some sand off the back of her legs.

Solana frowns. “No, you have to be in them.” Solana is more than ready to ask one of the security guards to come snap photos of them to avoid anyone being left out when Naomi reiterates her offer.

“Naw, it’s fine. I’ll catch some other photos.” She shrugs, her face giving away indifference that doesn’t match who Solana has always known her to be. This doesn’t feel like the Naomi Solana has grown to know, love, and view as a sister.

Stepping forward, voice lowered, she asks, “is everything al—”

“Oh my gosh!” Mickie’s excited voice prevents Solana from penning her question, as the attention of all is redirected to the water where Mickie is pointing. “Was that—was that a dolphin?”

Her own question is answered when a dolphin can, in fact, be seen in the distance leaping in and out of the water. It draws the awes and a set of cell phones as to capture the sight before them, but it’s the way Naomi stands off to the side, texting on her phone instead of photographing, that has Solana wondering. 

What’s going on with her?

—--------

“And that was the last time I ever fucked three men in one week,” Mickie finishes, downing the rest of her beer while chuckling. “That yeast infection afterwards was not worth it.”

A round of groans, Melina being the one to express, “Mickie, literally no one needed to hear that.”

“I second that,” Bayley lifts her beer, still halfway full. “Though we appreciate the…..lesson?”

Afia nods, gracefully drinking some of her mimosa. “Yes, lesson seems like an appropriate euphemism.” 

Mickie blinks exactly three times. “Yeah, I’m too buzzed to even try to figure out what that means.”

Afia laughs a little. “Fair.”

Cameron directs her attention to Solana, lifting up the bottle of wine as she pours herself another glass. “Are you sure you don’t want some, Sol?”

“I’m good,” Solana answers, hoping and praying the change in her tone doesn’t give anything away. For good measure, she offers a true, hopefully believable excuse. “The last time I drank wasn’t…..it wasn’t a good time.”

And, while it’s not a total lie, there’s a part of Solana that’s appreciative of that night. The night that seemed to be a turning point for her relationship with Roman. She still doesn’t recall everything that was shared, on either end, but one thing she knows is that next day was the first time she truly felt like they could make this work.

Make their relationship into a real marriage, and not only have they succeeded with that, they’ve taken it a step further by moving to the next step. 

Children. 

Their love has now resulted into the creation of two beautiful lives. 

Solana has to stop herself from placing her hand on her stomach. It’s something Afia seems to notice as she intentionally draws attention to herself. “It’s probably best we don’t let her drink. You all know how that lovely husband of hers is.” 

A sound of agreement, Bayley muttering, “lovely is one way to put it.”

“Bayley…”

She lifts her hands in a defensive manner. “What? I didn’t even say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” Melina says in a sing-song voice. “Granted, I mean, it’s not like you’re entirely wrong.” As Solana gives her the same look she was giving Bayley, defends, “Solana, come on, I met that man months ago, and he still calls me Mandy.”

“He’s not good with names,” Solana murmurs.

“I don’t think he calls me anything,” Afia wonders aloud only to shrug. “Not that I care but still.” 

“Pretty sure he just calls me bitch.” Bayley shares so nonchalantly.

“I don’t think he even knows our names.” Cameron gestures between herself and Mickie. 

“Okay,” Solana cuts in, sitting up on the sofa. “I know….I know Roman can be a little….rough around the edges, but he does mean well.”

Though Solana can’t deny that she agrees with Cameron. Roman really doesn't know their names. But, that’s neither here nor there. 

“No, he doesn’t.” It’s the introduction of a new voice. Naomi. From where she sits on the love chair, almost separate from the other women who are spread among the living room. “Roman is an asshole. A selfish asshole.” 

There’s a shift in the atmosphere. Something that’s clearly palpable given the shared, almost uncomfortable expressions amongst the group of women. 

Except Naomi.

“Roman isn’t an easy person. I get that,” Solana starts, choosing her words carefully. Mindful of the fact that there’s an audience. “But, he’s still my husband.”

Something flashes across Naomi’s face. “Why can’t he be both?”

Building. There’s something that’s been building ever since the group arrived in Isla Mujeres on yesterday afternoon. Something Solana sensed when they were on the beach, as the went shopping in the markets earlier in the day, as they shared dinner at a local, popular restaurant in the evening. And, it’s reaching a head as they all sit in this space, Naomi growing restless and clearly sitting on something she needs to share.

Something Solana is eager to hear.

“Hey!” Mickie cuts in. She seems to be good at that. “You know what we should do?” Eyes focus on her, clearly eager to de-escalate the tension that’s built up and consumed the room. “That TikTok challenge I was telling ya’ll about.”

At that, Melina scoffs. “Mickie, we’re all too old for that.” 

“Speak for yourself,” she rebuffs. “I’m 25 and will keep turning 25 until I decide I’m ready to be 26.” As she hops off the sofa and starts moving the coffee table, Cameron assisting her, Solana looks back over to see Naomi has gotten up and headed out back by the pool. 

Bayley stands and makes eye contact with her cousin, mouthing, “let me talk to her.”

As she leaves out, Solana finds herself appreciative but also something else.

Annoyed. 

She feels annoyed with Naomi. Not only because of her sour attitude on this trip thus far but her comments about Roman. As she stated, Solana knows Roman is not an easy person to deal with. He can be mean, and he can be an asshole at times. These are all things Naomi and even Bayley have said, joked about in the past, but there was something different about this time.

This time, Solana felt an almost sense of anger coming from the other woman.

Personal. 

It felt personal, and she doesn’t like that. 

She doesn’t like it at all. 

A warm hand on her lap pulls Solana’s focus to Afia. Her sister-in-law motions to the phone beside Solana.

Naturally, she grabs it, unsurprised to see an unread text. 

Afia: Can I offer a bit of advice?

Solana: yes. of course. 

Afia: Be careful with that one. Her energy is…..off. Has been since she stepped foot on the jet. 

Afia: Remember, Solana. Not everyone you call a ‘friend’ is actually your friend.

Solana doesn't reply after that, too busy sitting on Afia’s sage wisdom as well as what just transpired. It’s not something Solana didn't already know. That not everyone who claims to be a friend is actually a friend. 

But, what does one do when it’s a sister?

—-------

“I thought that Mona girl was A.” It’s a frustrated acknowledgement followed by a deep scowl as Roman turns to look at Dulce who sits on the sofa beside him. “Who the fuck is Cece?” A rhetorical question to the Pomeranian who lays her head back down and continues to stare at the screen.

Thoroughly disgusted, Roman scoops more of the popcorn in the bowl in his mouth. He grumbles, “I don’t know how your mom watches this shit.”

Roman doesn’t know just why he’s watching this shit, either. Maybe, in some weird way, it makes him feel close to Solana. Helps distract him from her lack of presence. It’s certainly not because he’s interested in this show where the parents have to be the dumbest people alive and these teenage girls sleep with grown men like shit is normal while some psychotic bitch, or bitches, make their lives a living hell. 

And yet, he’s on his second episode after finding himself needing a break from work and something mind-numbing to dull his stress levels.

This certainly does it, Roman thinks to himself.

Uninterested in yet another person who’s supposedly this ‘A,’ Roman grabs his phone, hitting the lock button on the side. And just like that, his irritation is almost instantly melted away. His lock screen photo snagging his attention and filling him with an almost warm feeling. It’s from one of Solana’s OB-GYN appointments. Dr. Sharmell moving the transducer around Solana's stomach, the doctor and his wife's heads turned, focused on the screens where he can make out two figures. Babies.

His babies.

It’s one of his favorite photos. 

Unlocking his phone, Roman navigates to his camera roll where the most recent photos are made up of his wife. Photos and videos she’s shared with him from her trip. A trip she seems to be enjoying the hell out of based on the smile on her pretty face and the joyful laughter that leaves her in most of the videos. 

Roman’s happy. Happy to know that despite her reservations about leaving, she’s having a good time. She deserves that. She deserves the world. 

He’s about to send her a quick text, just to check in on her when the doorbell ringing pulls his focus.

Roman is instantly scowling. He glances at the time in the corner of the screen. Who the fuck is at his house at damn near 6pm?

Dulce is also intrigued, lifting her head and jumping off the sofa. Little body moving towards the door, she stops and turns around to bark at him.

“Coming,” he grunts, sitting up and grabbing the remote to hit pause. Not that it matters. The show is a shitshow anyway. 

Big body carrying him to the front door, Roman doesn’t bother using the peephole, already knowing his security protocol is to only allow Bloodline members through the gate. 

But, it’s when he opens the door that his frown deepens. 

“What the hell are ya’ll doing here?”

Roman doesn’t receive an answer. He instead receives his cousin Ava, walking past him, in his house, uninvited. “Dulce!”

Dulce barks and excitedly wags her tail as Ava picks her up and starts cuddling her. “You are just the cutest lil thing, oh yes you are.”

Roman doesn’t even have time to process his traitorous dog not barking at these damn intruders, because Dwayne is also walking in, slapping him on his back, lifting the six pack of beers in his other hand.

“Don’t worry, we didn’t come empty handed, brotha.”

However, Roman couldn’t give two shits about that. “I’m trying to figure out why ya’ll are here at all.”

Once more, he is deprived of an answer as Dwayne and Ava descend deeper into the house when another entrant arrives. More than one.

Roman’s eyes widen slightly, as he’s forced to look all the way down to two tiny, almost identical humans looking up at him with almost the same surprised, almost familiar expressions. Like he’s seen them before, but where? 

He turns, thankful to see Dwayne is still in the vicinity. Pointing down, Roman asks, needing answers, “what are these?”

But, it’s not Dwayne who answers. “These are my sons, Roman.” The Tribal Chief turns to see yet another uninvited person standing in his doorway. But, Matteo isn’t alone. He’s holding a little girl who shares the same complexion and eyes as her brother, an almost intense gaze set on him. Matteo kisses the little girl’s temple. “And this is my daughter.”

Matteo suddenly reminds, “I suppose I didn’t get a chance to properly introduce you to them at the restaurant that night.”

It’s only when Matteo says as such that Roman remembers he most definitely has seen and, somewhat, met these children before. 

His biological nephews and niece. 

He won’t say it, would never admit it aloud, but there is a sense of shame that fills him at not remembering, because it feels like something he should have remembered.

Right?

Still trying to process the fact that all these people are at and in his house, along with this possibly problematic forgetting, Roman is only partially paying attention when Matteo transitions to name offering. “That’s Giovanni. We call him Gio. And Nino. He likes being called Nio.” A small smile appears on his face as he looks at the still staring little girl. “And this is Hassana, but we call her Sana.” Way too much information for Roman to process. “Kids, this is your cousin, Roman.” Matteo switches to Italian as both boys, almost in synchronization, offer quiet “hello’s.”

Unsure of just what to do and feeling almost pressured to respond, Roman mutters a low, “hi” and redirects his focus to the man in front of him. “What are you all doing here?”

Because, for the life of him, Roman cannot see any good, valid reason why Dwayne, Ava, Matteo and his three children have randomly popped up at his house this evening.

Matteo frowns. “Solana didn’t tell you?”

At that, Roman’s interest is intensely piqued. “Tell me what?”

“This is nice!”

And just like that, this evening has gone from strange to annoying to what the fuck.

Dulce running towards the door draws the attention of the boys whose eyes light up. “Puppy!”

Except, instead of running in terror like she did when confronted with Jey’s children, Dulce seems to bask in the gentle petting and belly rubs received by the boys. Hassana’s attention is also drawn, as she points to the dog, prompting Matteo to walk them over.

His departure paves the way for the appearance of two more faces.

“Hi there, Tribal Chief.” Sami offers a small, little wave. “Sorry to just pop up uninvited.”

“So, why did you?” Roman’s voice is significantly harsher. His technical, biological family being there is one thing, but it’s another for fucking Sami to be standing at his door. “Why are ya’ll here?”

R-Truth’s eyes widen a bit as he answers honestly, “I just came for the ride.”

Sami chuckles nervously, lifting a container of food. “I had some leftover Kibbeh, and Solana mentioned always wanting to try some, so I figured—”

“She’s not here,” Roman interrupts, going to snatch the container. “I’ll make sure she gets it.”

“Is that a puppy?” R-Truth’s voice is almost childlike as he looks past Roman to see the children still playing with Dulce. “Look at lil Toto!”

“Her name is Dulce,” Roman corrects, but it’s wasted breath, because Truth welcomes himself in Roman’s house, just like everyone else it seems, petting Dulce, asking something about Dorothy.

Whoever the fuck that is.

“Truth, come on, dude,” Sami says, the only one still respecting the Chief’s boundaries by remaining in the doorway. “We’ve gotta—”

“Sami!” Dwayne’s voice is heard again as he walks over, beer in one hand. “What’s up, man? You joining us?”

“No,” Roman answers, quickly. Cause again, what the fuck is going on. “Joining what?”

“The get-together Solana planned.”

Dwayne’s answer aligns with Matteo’s comment about Solana, prompting Roman to pull out his phone, as his older cousin welcomes Sami into the home.

Roman: Solana….what did you do?

Solana: i take it they’ve started arriving 🤭

Roman: Why the fuck are all these people in our house right now, Sol?

Solana: don’t get upset, baby, but i may have arranged a little get-together for you while i’m gone….

Roman: You did WHAT?

Solana: i didn’t want you to be alone the entire time i’m gone, ro! 😭 it’s just one night, baby, and it’s literally only ava, dwayne, and matteo. well, the kids, too, but they’re so sweet and well behaved!

Roman: Solana…

Solana: it’s one night, baby. you can handle one night, ro.

Roman: 20 minutes. They can stay for 20 minutes.

Solana: 😑

Roman: What?

Solana: at least give them an hour, roman, please.

Roman: No.

Solana: roman, please. 😭 for me? Please?

Roman: Fine. An hour.

Solana: thank you, baby. 🥰

Roman: Whatever.

Solana: 😘❤️

—--------

“Roman, baby, calm down. Just take some deep breaths.”

“I am calm.” He is most definitely not calm. Not in the slightest. “Who the fuck do they think they are? I’ll kill all of them!”

“Roman.” Solana sighs, rubbing her temples. Half an hour. It’s been almost a half hour since her husband blew up her phone for the second time tonight, causing her anxiety to spike. She thought something bad had happened at his get-together. That wasn’t the case.

Just not according to him.

The first incident was arguably the most ridiculous thing. Roman was upset, borderline petulant as he ranted about this nice local performer named Joe Hendry who the group of women laughed and interacted with as he performed at the restaurant they were chose for the evening. It was nothing but innocent singing and dancing, some of which was caught on camera. The footage shared by Bayley and Afia, prompting Roman to start texting Solana wanting to know the name of "the fucker" who was "all up" on her.

Joe was, in fact, not on her but rather interacting with the group as a whole. Not that that made a difference to her husband.

So, she had to deescalate that.

And then, there was the second round. The one she's in the middle of now.

Mickie and Bayley, unbeknownst to Solana, uploaded a video of one of the dance challenges she’d done with the girls the other night to Solana's Instagram page. The Tapout challenge, she thinks it’s called. Regardless of the name, it was the dancing, the twerking and throwing of ass she was doing that was shared to her page that has her husband on the brink of a stroke. “You can’t kill people just because they liked my video.”

“The fuck I can’t,” he protests, running his hands through his hair. “This is why I hate this social media shit.”

Right about now, Solana feels the same. “Baby, I made the video private. No one can see it anymore."

“But, they did see it, Solana, and they were liking and….commenting on it with those weird little ass picture things.”

“Emojis, Ro.” Solana closes her eyes. “They’re called emojis, honey.”

He’s dismissive, too wound up and focused on an issue that isn’t even a big issue. “Whatever they’re called, there were hearts and shit. And someone even had the fucking audacity to put a tongue. What the fuck does that even mean?”

Solana has a guess, but she’s not going to give him that supposition. He’s already upset enough. 

She decides to try to redirect the subject. “How was the get-together?”

He shoots her a look that’s more telling than any answer he could give. “The worse fucking night of my life.” Solana rolls her eyes. Her husband can be so dramatic. “All those damn people.”

“Roman, it was literally your family.”

“And?” She shakes her head. While Solana knew he wouldn’t be thrilled, she was hoping he’d get something out of it.

“You mean to tell me the entire night was awful?” And, it’s in posing that question, Solana sees it. Sees something flash in his eyes. “Did—did something happen?”

More hesitation, before he almost reluctantly answers, “I had a….talk with Matteo.”

Solana’s eyes widen. She definitely wasn’t expecting that. “Oh?” Solana shifts on the bed, wanting to give him her full, undivided attention. “How….how was that?”

Roman looks off in the distance, the difficulty he’s having in verbalizing himself evident and visible to his wife. “Wasn’t what I was expecting.” His answer is vague, borderline dismissive, and Solana is prepared to drop it, to tell him he doesn’t have to tell her anything more, when he continues in an almost low voice. “I’ll—I’ll tell you about it when you get home.”

An unexpected offer. One she’s extremely appreciative of. Not even because it’s important for her to know what happened in and with this conversation, but because it means a lot to her that her husband is willing to share that with her. She knows how hard vulnerability is for Roman, so any opportunity she has to provide that safe space for him, she’ll do it. Every single time.

“Okay,” is the answer she settles on, followed by a gentle, “you know I’m always here for you, Ro…..whatever you need.”

“I know.” A simple response and acknowledgment. 

More than enough. 

They talk for another half hour, Solana checking in on him, making sure he’s eating well, sleeping well, taking his meds. The usual. He asks about how her trip has been, any unpleasant pregnancy symptoms, ensuring she doesn’t need him for anything. Again, the usual for them.

Always looking out for each other.

And when their FaceTime call finally ends, Solana feels inclined to send him a text, reminding him once more that she’s available if he needs to talk. About anything. 

But, a soft knock at the door pulls Solana from her mid-typing. She lifts her head to see Afia standing in the doorway, wearing a soft smile, something black folded over her forearm. “Busy?”

She shakes her head, waving her head. “Not at all. Come in.”

Afia does so, closing the previously cracked door behind her. She walks over and sits on the edge of the bed. “Everything alright?”

Solana nods, a small smile on her face. “He’s fine. Just being Roman.” Looking her over, she has to ask, “are the kids okay?”

It’s always a wonderful thing to see how Afia’s face lights up whenever Solana mentions or asks about her children. “Yes. They miss me, of course, but they love their dad, so they’re managing just fine.”

Solana believes that. Believes that just as Afia is a wonderful, attentive, caring mother, Matteo is just the same as a father. She saw how the kids flocked to him at the party, boys roughhousing with their dad, while Sana laid her little head against his chest when she became tired. It’s obvious what a wonderful, close-knit family they are.

“I hope Roman and I can have what you have with your kids,” she confesses, quietly. Because, she does. Because what Solana wants more than anything for her children is for them to be happy. To give them the childhood she and Roman never got to have.

“You will,” Afia affirms. “It’ll be even better than what we have.” The reassurance ignites a warm, appreciative smile on Solana’s face when her sister-in-law hands her the black item. “Which is why I had to get this for you.” Slightly confused, Solana accepts the item. “Or maybe I should say Roman.”

Eager for clarification, Solana lifts and opens up what she realizes is a shirt. A gasp. “Afia!” Solana is instantly laughing, scoffing in disbelief. “You didn’t.”

The Nigerian woman chuckles. “I did. I saw your face light up when you saw it.” Solana continues to look at the large black shirt that reads “Real Men Make Twins” in Spanish. A shirt she’d seen when the group went out shopping earlier. “It was obvious you wanted it, but I know you couldn’t get it without drawing suspicion. Thankfully, I didn’t have to worry about that.”

Solana brings the shirt to her chest, hugging it, imagining Roman wearing said shirt. Wearing the shirt while holding their twin daughters. “Thank you, Afia.”

Solana reaches and hugs the other woman who murmurs into her ear, “you’re welcome.” As the two separate and Solana once again finds herself in awe over the thoughtful gesture, Afia inquires, “everything still going good?”

Nodding, the mother-to-be offers, “yes. According to my doctor, it’s only a matter of time before I start showing.” Not soon enough though, to Solana. She knows she’s pregnant, but there’s something about being able to physically see that she’s pregnant is what she’s looking forward to the most.

Afia chuckles. “You’re three months, right?” Solana nods, and Afia chuckles. “Oh, yes. Twins, too? Yes. you’ll wake up one morning and find a whole ass baby bump.”

Curious, Solana questions, “is that how it was for you?”

Afia nods. “For both my pregnancies. On a Monday, I woke up with abs. By Wednesday morning, I was showing.”

While there’s a bit of faux irritation in her voice in describing her experience, Solana finds excitement growing within her. 

She can’t wait to experience that for herself.

And with Roman, too.

Eager to pry Afia’s brain for something Solana has been thinking about the past couple weeks, as well as knowing a conversation happened between their husbands tonight, she shifts on the bed. “Hey, can I ask—”

A knock on the door interrupts the asking of said question as Solana quickly hides the shirt behind her pillow before calling out. “Come in.”

Afia turns just in time to see Naomi turn the knob and open the door. Solana is watching the whole time, so she sees the way Naomi’s small smile drops into a straight line.

Clearing her throat, Solana maintains her smile. “Hey.” She moves over on the bed and pats the spot next to her. “Come join us.”

Naomi shakes her head, that same almost negative energy that’s surrounded her the whole trip so far, permeating the atmosphere. “That’s alright.”

Afia moves to get up. “I can leave, if you’d prefer—”

“I said, that’s alright,” Naomi cuts her off, both Afia and Solana wearing partially shocked expressions by her abruptness. “Just forget it.”

As she turns to leave, there’s another turn that happens. Not literally, like Naomi’s departure from the room, but something abstract and almost metaphorical.

The knob that exists within Solana regarding her emotions. The dial between patience and impatience, and right now, Solana is leaning much toward the latter than the former.

Untangling her legs from the bed, she mutters to Afia, “I’ll be right back.”

Afia says something, but Solana isn’t listening, too focused, too frustrated, too pissed.

Moving down the hall, she’s grateful to find Naomi’s door cracked and the room void of Bayley, who’s clearly still out back by the pool with Cameron and Mickie.

Closing it behind her to secure privacy, Solana gets right to it. “Okay, what is your problem?” As Naomi stands on the opposite side of the room, arms crossed, pacing almost, Solana continues. “You’ve been off this entire trip. Distant as heck, and I’m trying to figure out why.”

Distant is a nice way to put what Solana really wants to say, the not so nice word that comes to mind remaining in the safe confines of her mind.

Naomi, however, shakes her head. “This isn’t the place.”

Solana couldn’t disagree more. “I think this is exactly the place.” Crossing her arms, she asks again, tone a bit softer. “Naomi, please….talk to me.”

That, however, seems to be the wrong thing to say. “Talk to you?” She smiles, but there’s nothing happy or comical about it. “You want me to talk to you? Why? Why should I when you’ve been damn MIA for months now?”

Solana finds herself frowning. “What–what are you talking about?”

Her head tilts back, as she moves to pinch her nose. “Solana, for months now, you’ve been acting weird. One minute, we’re hearing from you, the next, I can’t even get a text back. One minute, we’re training a couple times a week. Now, I don’t know the last time I saw you at the Warehouse. Unanswered texts then a random ass invite to dinner where all you can talk about is Roman and how you’ve been trying to help him, while also putting me in an uncomfortable position by asking me to keep secrets from Jimmy.”

“Naomi, I didn’t—”

“And then after scheduling and canceling this girls trip 5011 times, you finally have it, and you’re acting like everything’s fine and dandy when it’s not. Things are a mess right now, Solana, and in every version I’ve heard of what happened, you are the nucleus of every story.”

Solana knew something was going on with Naomi, but she could have never anticipated what she’s hearing would come out of the woman’s mouth. “What—what are you talking about?”

Another wrong thing to say. “You seriously don’t know?” Solana doesn’t have to answer, because Naomi is already onto explanations. “Roman kicked Rikishi, Jey, and Solo out of his inner circle. Demoted them all.” 

Eyes widening, Solana only has one word oscillating in her mind, a word that escapes. “What?”

“Yes,” Naomi scoffs, crossing her arms. “Whatever happened with you and Rikishi a couple months ago is something Roman clearly isn’t over, or maybe his pride is wounded—”

“Do you know what happened?” Solana finds herself asking, interrupting, irritation starting to bubble again. She doesn’t like Naomi’s almost accusatory tone. “What he tried to do?”

Naomi shakes her head and presses her fingers to her temple.  “Solana, I love you. I promise I do, but right now, I don’t care what happened, because whatever it was has spiraled into this big mess.” She blows out a breath, laying it all out. “Jey is pissed with Roman, and I have to hear about it every day since Roman has him helping me train new recruits. Jimmy hears it the most though. He’s so torn with this whole thing. Being put in a position where he feels like he has to pick between his actual brothers and the man he always viewed as a brother. He’s been so stressed out, and it’s affecting our marriage, Solana.” 

Each sentence is like a slice into Solana’s heart, because underneath Naomi’s frustration, she sees it, she feels it. The hurt.

Naomi is hurt behind it all. 

“And don’t get me wrong, Jey was wrong for that scene he pulled at the restaurant and even at your welcome home party, but Roman is wrong for taking this all so personal and responding the way he has.”

That. 

That, however, is the comment that makes Solana’s compassion dwindle just a bit.

“I didn’t know Roman had demoted them, Naomi. I—I didn’t.” She truly didn’t, and while a part of her wishes her husband had told her about this, she can understand why he didn’t. The same reason she’s prepared to point out to Naomi. “But, his hands are tied. Jey—Jey has been out of control lately. What was Roman supposed to do? He had to make a call, and he made it.”

Naomi cuts her eyes to the ceiling. “He made the wrong call though, Solana.”

“According to who?” 

“Roman is the Tribal Chief,” Solana defends, uncrossing her arms. “He did what he did because it was best for the Bloodline—”

“Roman did what was best for you, Solana!” Naomi cuts her off, voice raised, borderline a shout. Solana is quiet, still trying to process just what’s transpiring. “He felt like you were disrespected, and he couldn’t have that, so he made it about you.”

A heavy, loaded pause followed by an almost whispered question. “You–you think all this is my fault?”

It’s clear that Naomi is heedful with her answer, each word carefully chosen. “I think a lot of Roman’s decision making has been based upon what’s best for you and him, not what’s good for the Bloodline, and if you can’t see that, then I don’t know what to tell you.”

But regardless of the methodical wording, it’s painfully obvious that it could all be summarized to one, telling word.

Yes.

Yes, she does think this is Solana’s fault.

Similarly, the younger woman is also careful in her wording. Finding that balance between assertive and validating. “You’re upset, and I get that. You’re allowed to be upset. It’s not fair. And, I really am so sorry that what’s happening is not only happening but affecting you and Jimmy.” All of that is just as true as the next portion of her thought-out response. “But, I will not allow you to put this on me. You know better than most people how much I struggled with blaming myself for things, so I am not going to let you bring me back to that headspace.” Tears brim in Solana's eyes for a variety of reasons, because of the small ways that she already has been taken to that space.

Glimpses of all the times blame was laid toward her. Largely from Xavier and Wesley. From the most mundane things, like breakfast not being ready on time, all the way up to being told it was her fault she was raped because she didn't "fight hard enough."

She was blamed for all the things no one should be blamed for.

Never again.

Never will she allow that to be the case.

Not even with someone she considers a sister. 

Guilt and a sense of sadness gleams in Naomi’s soft brown eyes. “Solana, I didn’t mean—”

“You should leave.”

A pregnant pause. “What?”

Solana swallows, doing her best to keep the tears at bay. “It’s obvious you feel some type of way about me right now, about Roman, and I–I have to respect that. I will, but you have to respect that I can’t have that kind of energy around me right now. It’s not fair to me or any of the other girls.”

It isn’t. Naomi’s attitude has been a thing noticed and commented on not only by herself but Afia, Mickie, and even Cameron, who normally doesn’t like to comment on things like that. And, it’s clear that said attitude isn’t going away anytime soon, because there’s a lot that needs to be discussed and worked through. None of which Solana is interested in doing right now or at any point on this trip. 

She’s got enough on her plate. 

“I’ll have Bautista make arrangements for you to use the jet to fly back in the morning—”

“Seriously, Solana?” Naomi scoffs, her face a mixture of several emotions. “You’re really doing this?”

“I don’t want to do this, Naomi.” She really doesn’t. This is the last outcome she expected when walking into this room. “But—but I can’t deal with this right now. I don’t want to.” She wipes at a tear that’s managed to escape, gliding down her cheek. “When I get back home, you and I can talk one on one, because you do deserve clarity and answers. I just….I don’t want to do it right now.”

Naomi just looks at her. “Wow.” There’s a tension and heaviness that travels through the room, settling on the walls, making itself at home, dwelling in the roots of discord that have been planted. “After everything we’ve been through, the friendship, the sisterhood we have, this is how you’re treating me?”

“Naomi.” Solana closes her eyes. It seems like this somehow becomes more and more complicated, twisted, and messy with every second that passes. “I want to figure this out with you, make things right, because you mean so much to me. You are my sister. My best friend, but I—I just need you to understand that mentally, I can’t do this right now.” Repeating of the same thing, just with elaboration and vulnerability. A certain amount of it, because what Solana really wants to say is stress is something she can’t have due to her pregnancy.

A pregnancy Naomi still doesn’t know about. 

A pregnancy, as much as it pains her to think it, Solana is somewhat happy Naomi doesn’t know about.

Because with what’s been said, the distance and tension that exists between them, Solana doesn’t know if the woman she considered, still considers to be a sister, would be happy for her. 

And, that hurts.

It hurts like hell. 

—---------

Solana feels sick, and for the first time in months, it has nothing to do with the children growing inside of her and everything to do with the past, present, and future.

She has no idea how long she’s been in the shower. Long enough for her fingers to prune and sweat to form on her forehead from the steam of the borderline scorching water. A small smile forms on her face recalling a shower she took with her husband before leaving for her trip, Roman’s scowl as he stepped in the water and cursed almost immediately from the temperature.

“Solana, what the hell? Are you trying to fucking burn us?”

It’s a memory that makes her laugh. For someone so serious, her husband might be one of the funniest people she knows.

But just as quickly as her smile was there, it’s wiped away as she’s reminded once more that that was then, and this is now. Roman isn’t here. Because she told him she didn’t need him. Told him she could do this on her own, and she can, but she can’t. A wicked dichotomy that’s resulted in nothing but overthinking and ruminating over the past few hours.

Catastrophizing, as Gail would call it. Playing out the worst case scenario, and both believing and accepting it as true. It’s exactly what she’s done. What she’s been doing. 

And to her credit, Solana does her best to utilize the techniques she’s learned in therapy when situations like this arrive, but this particular occurrence is a more challenging one, because all Solana wants to do is climb back in bed and forget about the whole thing.

And, she could. Solana knows that no one can make her do this. Roman would especially encourage her to do what feels most right to her. What she’s comfortable with. But, the reality is that what’s comfortable isn’t what’s always right. She needs to do this. Solana knows she needs to do this, but damn, is she terrified.

That’s the future concern. Then, there’s the past.

The conversation, borderline argument, with Naomi that had Solana so messed up, Bayley happened to walk by and overheard her crying in her room, prompting her cousin to come see what was wrong. Solana didn’t provide specifics, didn’t want to make Bayley feel like she was in the middle of things, but she did share that they’d had a disagreement and Naomi was leaving in the morning.

To say that situation didn’t fuck with her mentally would be a lie.

Naomi means so much to Solana. She’s a best friend and a sister, one of the first Solana has had in her entire life. It guts her to know Naomi feels the way she does and is going through what she is. That the mess with the Bloodline is now impacting her marriage with Jimmy.

Solana especially hates that. They’ve always had such a strong union, a wonderful dynamic. To know that’s not the case anymore, at least right now, is rough. 

And, then there’s the whole Bloodline dynamic. Solana had no idea Roman had dismissed and demoted the three men. He didn’t tell her, and she knows why he didn’t, doesn’t blame him, per se. But, damn, once again, something else on her husband’s plate he’s been dealing with alone. 

She hates that.

Hates that she didn’t know, even if she gets why he probably didn’t keep her in the loop.

But, still.

Eventually, after recognizing it’s only a matter of time until someone comes looking for her, Solana actually completes her shower and steps out, wrapping the towel around her body. She uses another smaller towel to clear a chunk of the mirror from the accumulated condensation, granting her a view of herself. Eyes falling to the counter where her toiletries are spread, a blush climbs up to her cheeks as she’s hit with another memory. 

Propped up on the counter, her husband’s face buried in between her legs before he carried her to their bedroom and made love to her. Her birthday trip. The days after when they’d been intimate for the first time, a door opening that Solana never intends to allow anyone to ever force her to have shut anymore.

But, as was the case with the shower memory, the recollection of a steamier encounter is no match for her anxiety, because she’s right back to overthinking. Overthinking the conversation with Naomi but especially the conversation she’s supposed to have in a matter of hours.

Right back to picturing the worst case ever when it comes to something she initially believed could go okay. And, there’s a part of her that knows this. Knows that the most realistic outcome will be okay.

So, why can’t she just focus on that instead of visions and flashes of being called a liar, screamed at, sent away, rejected?

Solana swallows the lump in the back of her throat and proceeds to carry on with her routine. Dental hygiene, styling her hair, applying deodorant and her body oils and creams. No makeup. She’s certain tears will be shed for one reason or another, and having black streaks down her face doesn’t sound like a fun time.

None of it does, but that’s a small thing that’ll only exacerbate things. 

Solana sprays her Delina perfume, a gift from Roman, on her pulse points and lightly taps her wrists together before reaching for her bra, underwear, and gray dress she’d picked. A pick she’s also now questioning, because what if it’s too revealing? Truth be told, with her large chest, anything she wears could fall into the “revealing” category, especially as she’s noticed some slight changes in her body in the past few weeks. Breast slightly bigger, hips a little wider. All symptoms of her pregnancy, certainly, but still noticeable, nonetheless.

Granted, Isla Mujeres is hot as hell, so too much clothing will certainly attract too much heat and make her sweat. Her dress is most appropriate given the weather, just maybe not the occasion. 

Frustrated with yet another issue her brain has made an issue, Solana dresses herself, unable to keep the tears at bay. Droplets sliding down her face, she rubs them away with all of the frustration growing inside of her. Try as hard as she does to push it back, Solana can’t deny the growing difficulty she’s having in not at least texting or calling her husband. 

She doesn’t need him here, per se, so she thinks, but hearing his voice, or even his reassuring messages could make a huge difference. 

But, he’s busy. She knows he’s busy, especially after what she learned last night. Roman is always busy, and yet, he always makes time for her. He’s done it a tremendous amount of times ever since learning of the pregnancy, so much so that she feels bad putting this on him as well. 

She just needs to deal with this on her own, even though she’s not alone. She’s surrounded by friends who would love and support her. But, there’s just something different about her husband. His support hits harder, feels stronger. It’s truly the balm she needs in most situations. 

Just not in this one. 

She’ll have to deal.

It’s a realization Solana begrudgingly comes to accept when she grabs her phone off the counter and opens the door to head back into her room. Except, the minute she does, that same phone she just picked up is now on the plush carpet of the master bedroom, and the tears brewing are pushed over the edge.

Solana opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Words aren’t what she wants right now. What she wants is to be in her husband’s warm embrace, and that’s exactly what she does.

Her feet quickly carry her across the room where she flings herself into Roman’s waiting arms from where he sits on the edge of their bed. The force of the collision forces him back on the bed, but she doesn’t care. She prefers it. Prefers lying atop him, his big, strong arms wrapped protectively around her as she nuzzles her face into his neck.

This was the last thing Solana expected. For Roman to be here, to surprise her by popping up in Mexico. 

She doesn’t know why he’s here or how he even knew to come, but she doesn’t question it. Doesn’t question it at all.

Because it’s exactly what she needed.

Solana feels his warm lips pressed against her temple, the way one hand soothes along the length of her back and the other palms her ass. Placement that’s calming in a way only he can achieve. She’s clutching him, basking in the relief he brings when his deep voice rumbles in her ear. “What’s wrong, pretty girl?”

A lot. There’s a lot Solana could bring up to him right now, namely the Bloodline situation, but that’s less of a pressing issue than the one she has to face in a few hours.

One thing at a time.

A sad smile against him followed by a quiet confession. “I don’t think I can do this, Ro.” 

He sighs. “Sol…”

Solana also sighs and reluctantly shifts so she’s no longer hugging him but propped up on one elbow, other hand on his chest as she looks down at him. “What if she doesn’t believe me? Or—or rejects me?” Roman reaches his hand to brush away some of her tears. “I just….I don’t think I can handle that.”

“Solana, why would she reject you?” His question is posed with all the consideration and care. “She already likes you. Hell, she probably already loves you.”

“But, Roman….” And it’s only then, the deeply buried fear, the core belief that drives so much of Solana’s doubt and fear is revealed. “Her daughter’s dead because….because of me.” She closes her eyes, biting down on her bottom lip to try to contain the second set of tears. “What….what if she blames me?”

It’s a scary but true thing to admit aloud, to verbally express something she herself struggled with for years. Blaming herself for her mother’s murder, and while Solana is still trying to work through, largely with therapy, her now confusing feelings toward her mother, the fact of what happened and how it’s impacted her remains unchanged.

It’s still and will probably always be something she has a bit of self-blame about. 

A sort of blame she fears she’ll receive from Paloma.

“Solana…” Roman sits up and adjusts them, tugging her onto his lap so she’s straddling him, hands on her hips. “You were a child. Do you honestly think she will blame you for what happened?” He doesn’t offer time for her to answer, transitioning to his next set of questions. “That she’d be upset to find out that she has a granddaughter? That she has some living, remaining connection to her daughter?” One of Roman’s hands shifts to Solana’s stomach, moving in small circles. “That she’s going to be angry at finding out you’re going to make her a great-grandmother?” 

As always, his words and nonverbal gestures are comforting and soothing, dwindling down her anxiety. “She already loves you. This isn’t going to change that. If anything, it might make it stronger.” 

The explanation is effective, chipping away and dismantling her fears, replacing it with something similar to confidence. Most logical outcome trumping worst case scanrios. 

“You’re right,” she murmurs after a few minutes of mulling over all of his counterpoints. Solana closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “I—I can do this.”

“Of course, you can,” he encourages, lifting her chin to bring her gaze onto him. “Do you want me to go with you?”

A part of her wants to say yes, another part wants to say no. One overpowers the other. “Yes.”

He doesn’t have to come inside, doesn’t even have to leave the car. Just having his presence right before will be enough.

Solana leans forward and hugs him, eyes shutting. “Thank you.”

His response is a kiss to her cheek and the reiteration of his mantra when it comes to her. Always. “I’ve got you.”

—---------

There's brief discussion who should accompany Solana to go see Paloma. Initially, it was going to be Bayley, but with Roman now present, as well as not wanting to give anything away before Solana can explain, it's settled that it'll just be Solana and Roman.

And, she's grateful for him. Holds his hand the entire drive there and basks in the comforting way he kisses her after helping her out of the SUV.

She's even grateful for the little nod Bautista gives her, before she moves down the stone path to the front door. He obviously doesn't know the specifics, but he knows enough to know she's about to do something important.

Something potentially life-changing and terrifying. All of which overwhelms her and slams her in the face as she nervously knocks on the door.

But, it's the minute that the door opens, Solana is immediately engulfed by a burst of warm, loving energy.

“Solana.” Paloma’s smile is wide and welcoming as she claps her hands on the apron around her waist before stepping over the mantle and welcoming her into a tight embrace. Initially, there’s discomfort on Solana’s end, not from the physical gesture but from the fact that it’s here. That she’s finally here. “It’s so good to see you, child.”

The second introductory statement pushes down some of the anxiety, Solana able to lean into the embrace, accepting it, allowing the energy to transfer over to her.

Paloma squeezes her once more before stepping back, surveying her almost. “Look at your hair.” She reaches for the ends, complimenting, “you look good, Solana.”

“Thank you,” is Solana’s quiet response, as Paloma looks over her shoulder.

“Is he….”

Solana does the same, seeing Roman leaning back against the SUV, dark shades covering his eyes, muscled arms crossed. Waiting. He’s waiting for her signal. A sign that she’s okay.

And, she gives him that, gives him that nod of approval. Roman gives her a small nod as well, moving to talk to Bautista who stands a few feet away and will remain with her, patrolling the outside premises with her security detail.

“No,” Solana finally answers, turning back to Paloma. “Not—not this time.”

Because, if this doesn’t go horribly wrong, Solana is hoping for more interaction between her husband and the woman who is her biological grandmother.

Even if Paloma doesn’t know it just yet.

Being inside of Paloma’s home is….it’s an experience. It’s an experience, because judging by the wear and tear on some of the walls, the almost dated styling of the hacienda home, Solana would guess that she’s lived here for some time. 

Long enough to raise a family. 

Or at the very least, a child. 

A child who grew up to be a woman. A woman who had her own children, Solana being one of those children.

“Tea?” Paloma holds up the teapot from where she stands by the stove in her kitchen. Small, warm tones, floral designs and a welcoming atmosphere. Much like the rest of her home.

Solana offers a polite decline. “No thank you.” She starts to ask what the tea is but ultimately decides against it, not wanting to risk anything. “Thank—thank you for having me.”

Paloma gives her a look. “Child, please. I’ve been waiting for this.” Paloma prepares her own cup of tea, adding just a bit of honey and a pinch of spices. “I’ve been worried about you.”

An expected thing. Solana knows her contact with Paloma has been abysmal since their initial meeting a few months back, and though not without good reason, it’s still something she feels bad about.

As Paloma sits down across from her, stirring her tea, she asks, gaze assessing. “How have you been?”

Such a simple question with a loaded, heavy answer. It’s not something Solana hasn’t thought about, twisted and turned in bed over, trying to settle on just how much she wanted to share of what’s transpired.

“It….it’s been a lot,” she finally answers after a minute or two of silence. “After…after I left here and went back home, some….some things happened, and I—my mental health got really bad.” Solana’s gaze falls to her lap as she pulls at the material of her dress, needing a distraction from the fluttering in her chest. Anxiety. “I—I was in the hospital and a treatment facility for a while.”

“Solana….”

“I’m better now,” she answers, eyes closing, reminding herself that where she was is far from where she is now. And, she’s never going back to that dark place. “I’m…significantly better.”

Paloma’s mug sits on the table, mostly untouched. She reaches over, placing a hand on top of Solana’s. “I’m so sorry.” Her warm eyes twinkle with concern. “I had a feeling something was going on with you. I’ve been praying for you. Praying for peace.”

“Thank you,” Solana murmurs. She’s not sure anyone’s ever said anything of the sort to her before. “I—I appreciate that. It….it means a lot to me.”

“Of course.” The older woman squeezes her hand, asking almost urgently.  “Is there anything you need? Anything I can do for you?”

And, there it is. The moment that Solana has both dreaded and waited for for some time now. A door being opened and paving way for her to fulfill a task that she’d give anything to push off for as long as she can, even if, deep down, she knows it’s not the right thing to do. She can’t keeping avoiding the inevitable.

It’s time.

“I—” Solana takes a deep breath. I can do this. “I—I have something I need to talk to you about. Something….something I need to tell you.” Solana swallows, doing her best to remain as open and vulnerable as she can. It’s more than needed in a situation as heavy and layered as this. “And the truth….the truth is that I’m terrified about how you’re going to respond.”

Paloma gaze shifts into something almost unreadable. “Solana, whatever it is, I’m sure it’s fine, child. Please. Just tell me.”

So much easier said than done. Solana looks away, blowing out a deep breath. “I—I never knew a lot about my mother’s side of the family. She never….she never really spoke about them.” And now that Solana knows the full backstory, she can’t be upset with her mother for it. Other things, yes, but not that. “I—I always wondered though.” Trembling hands reach into the purse that sits in the seat next to her, pulling out two items. An envelope and a polaroid photo turned downward. “When I was—I was going through and reorganizing some of my mom’s old journals, I found a letter she wrote me….before she passed.” Her voice dips with all the emotion that still accompanies that moment when she not only found the letter but read said letter. “And, it shared a lot. So much information that I didn’t know but now know, and it’s been hard for me finding out what I did.” A lot of her sessions with Gail since then revolving around Solana processing and working through all of the information. “But, the most important thing I gained from the letter was finding out more about her, her family….my family. And….” It’s been some time since Solana has felt this anxious, the only comparison that feels most equivalent being the night Roman found out about her pregnancy and Fetu’s letter. “If….if you’d like to read the letter—”

“No,” Paloma interrupts, her voice somehow both firm and gentle. “That—that’s too personal, Solana. Your mother most likely intended it to be for your eyes only. I could never…” She trails off, caught off guard by how Solana carefully stands from her seat and moves over to her knees in front of her. “Solana, what are you—”

“Please believe me when I say I had no idea who you were when we met. I didn’t—I didn’t know the truth then, and I’m sorry for—”

“Solana.” Gentle hands move to cup her face, Solana just now realizing that she’s crying and on the verge of an anxiety attack. “What is it?”

Solana closes her eyes. It’s time.

Licking her lips, ignoring the massive weight that feels like it’s settled upon her chest, she lifts her hand, sliding the envelope and polaroid across the table in front of Paloma. Verbal directions are unnecessary as the still very confused and very concerned older woman lowers her hands from Solana’s face to take the items she’s been handed.

Solana expects her to go for the envelope first.

She doesn’t.

She lifts up the polaroid first.

And, the minute she does, a loud, almost violent gasp leaves her. One hand over her mouth, her eyes are glued to the photo, her shoulders almost trembling. Nothing is said, and the seconds that pass are filled with every bit of anxiety and tension that Solana also feels coursing through her entire body.

“Where…..” Paloma’s voice is shaky, her eyes now watering as she looks over at Solana. “Where did you get this photo?”

“I’ve always had it,” Solana is also trembling, her voice wavering. “It’s one of my favorite photos….” No greater fear has filled Solana than waiting for whatever follows the next statement that leaves her mouth. “Of my mother.”

The gasp that emits from Paloma’s mouth this time is louder, heavier, and significantly more emotional. She drops the picture onto the table, moving her hands to look at Solana, to really look at her.

Like she’s doing so for the first time.

And, in many ways, she is.

“I always thought you looked like my Alma,” Paloma cries. “But, I didn’t say anything, because after she disappeared, I almost lost my mind, and I—I saw her in every young woman, and I just thought….” She closes her eyes, crying harder. “I can’t believe after all these years…..” Another gasp, hiccupped almost request. “Please….I must know…what happened to my daughter? What did he do to her?”

And in everything Solana feared about this moment, this is the part that frightened her the most. The moment she fears will change everything in the most awful of ways.

But, the truth is something that frees, liberates, and deserves to be voiced. 

Paloma deserves to know what happened. 

“When....when I was still a child, she came up with....with a plan....” Speaking is such a trepidatious thing to to do, but somehow, someway, Solana powers through it. “She was trying….she was trying to get us out of there, to….to escape my father.” Solana will never again consider Xavier her father, but thinking back to the letter, how her mother shared he lied about his identity, she knows using the name Xavier will only be confusing. Bring about more questions. And, she will answer them. But, right now, answering the question at hand is the most important thing. “But, he—he found out—” Solana sniffles, unable to settle her tears or any of the heavy emotions that accompany this weighty moment. “And, he sent—he sent men to kill us.”

Paloma’s eyes shut. “Oh my God….”

“She died protecting me,” Solana shares, the memory of her mother’s dead body atop of her returning to the front of her mind, bringing about a fresh new set of tears. “She’s—she’s dead because of me, and I’m so sorry—” She's unable to finish her sentence, too wrecked by her sobs, head falling as she covers her face. Overwhelmed with the guilt that she feels will always lie within, dormant at times, active at others.

Never to fully go away.

Paloma moves her hands to Solana’s wrist, carefully lowering her hands as she once again cups her face. “No, child.” She shakes her head, affirming with all the conviction. “What happened was not your fault.” Words that Solana heard for the first time, in a long time, for her husband. That, in many ways, changed her life. Now being repeated again by her grandmother in yet another life changing moment. “Solana….” Her smile is sad, her soul clearly heavy, but her determination unwavering. “There exists no greater act of love for a mother than to lay down her life in order to save her child.” She wipes away Solana’s tears. “And that’s exactly what my Alma did.” Solana closes her eyes, hand falling to her stomach. “She died just as she lived.” Her voice catches. “With love.”

Love.

The emotion that’s most dominant in this moment, settling over and overpowering any trace of fear and doubt and any other negative feeling Solana expected to encounter. The rejection she expected to receive in the face of the truth.

She couldn’t have been more wrong.

Head falling into Paloma’s lap, Solana sobs. She sobs from the loss of her mother, from the reunification of her family, from the everything that this moment of truth has brought her, and from the love that overwhelms her. 

“My granddaughter.” Paloma leans over, crying and kissing the back of Solana’s head, holding her, cradling her with an unrelenting grip. Like she won’t let go. Like she’ll never let go. “My beautiful, beautiful, nieta….”

--------

translation:

nieta = granddaughter

[augustinewrites]

cw: jjk manga spoilers (up to 221), blood, sword fights heh + note: it's finally here, and somehow it's worse than shibuya!

“is he gonna be mad?”

“satoru?” you snort lightly, taking another bite of your frozen yogurt. “he’s just going to ask if you won. he might try to take the sequel of that new book set you got as punishment— but i’ll see what i can do.” 

across the table, megumi huffs, leaning back into the plush booth. you’d picked him up early from school today, the reason being yet another suspension. his second since he’d started the school year. you suppose that’s the reason for his sullen disposition and existential crisis. 

“am i a bad person?”

you glance up at him in acknowledgement, but take a moment before answering. he stirs the frozen yogurt around in its cup, looking rather glum.

there’s a delicate way of going about these types of things. children (especially teenagers) are complicated creatures. they’re still at their most malleable, your words and actions shaping their very future.

“i don’t think you’re a bad person, megumi,” you answer softly, setting your spoon down. 

“but i…i keep doing bad stuff,” he argues dejectedly. “and— and i was mean to tsumiki—”

“hey. no one’s born wanting to do bad things,” you tell him. “and when they do…it’s usually more complicated than we think. there are bad situations where sometimes we have to do bad things. even if we don’t want to. even if we’re not proud of them.” 

“but how do you know that i’m not?” he asks again, and your heart aches. 

“because i know you,” you smile. “i’ve known you for eight years, megumi. yeah, i think you could afford to try using your words instead of your fists once in a while, and be a little nicer to your sister…but i know everything you do comes from a good place.”

megumi doesn’t reply, staring out the window with that pensive frown of his. all you can do is wonder if you and satoru have done right by him. if you’re doing right by him now. (such is the life of a parent, you suppose.)

all you can do is hope. 

“hey,” you grin, holding your hand out to him. “promise me something?”

_____

you stumble backwards, narrowly avoiding being gutted by a sword. gasping, your fingers fumble with the hem of your shirt, the material sliced right above the small, almost imperceptible bump of your stomach. 

your megumi would never hurt you. your megumi, your sweet, gentle boy who still muttered the song about bunny ears as he tied his shoes. who always offered his sister the last bite of cake, even though you knew he wanted it for himself. who cried the first time his shikigami were injured in battle. 

but this isn’t megumi.

you barely dodge the blade again, ducking and sending your demon dogs out to slow him down as you sprint down the alley. your heart shatters at the sound of a high-pitched whine, but you can’t stop, you can’t look back—

“going somewhere?”

you skid to a stop in front of him, staggering back as quickly as you can. 

megumi— no, sukuna stands in front of you now, holding a sword you’d taught his vessel how to make, how to use. 

“please,” you beg, thinking of tsumiki’s body a few blocks away. thinking of gojo in the prison realm. you can’t lose anyone else today. “please let him go.”

“i don’t think so,” he grins, sick and twisted as he slowly makes his way towards you. “if only he’d unlocked his full potential sooner. if only you had.” 

“he’s just a child.” you say, voice trembling. you look around. there’s no use in running. he’s gotten much too strong.

but you’re not ready to die either.

he wasn’t patient, lunging first and taking the offense. it’s a struggle to meet him at every swing, deflecting blows that send tremors down the sword’s point of impact and reverberate through your arms. 

playing defence is the smart move. you’d wait for an opening or a drop in his own defence. then your goal would be to disarm him and attempt to grant yourself an advantage. 

(in theory, at least.)

when your swords lock once more, he forces them to the side, kicking you square in the chest. the impact knocks you onto your back. before you can get up, he’s on top of you, driving his sword into your shoulder.

the pain is so blinding, so white-hot and tortuous that you almost immediately pass out when he pulls it free and tosses it out of your reach. 

sukuna is in your face now, lips peeled back into a smirk as he laughs, the top of his finger slowly dragging down your face.

“putting you down now would be letting this brat off too easy. doing it slowly, however—”

“get off her.”

your heart skips a beat. that voice. 

there’s a flash of recognition in megumi’s eyes. just a for a second. 

“satoru?” 

“is that any way to treat the person who washed your underwear for almost ten years?” he tsks, hands in his pockets as he steps into the alley, quite literally kicking the king of curses off of you.

he sweeps you off the floor as gently as possible, your stomach flipping at the familiar sensation of being teleported.

you’re not in the alley anymore, you’re up on the roof of a building. as soon as satoru sets you on your feet, you look up, studying his face. the eyes you love so much stare back at you. 

the emotions you’d kept bottled up since he’d been gone pour out at once. proof of your heartache, anger, pain, and loneliness spilling over your lash line.

suddenly there’s too much space between you and you tentatively take a step forward. 

“it’s you,” you breathe. “it’s really you.” 

he says your name softly, and arms you’d longed for envelop you. you feel safe, if only for a moment.

“you need to get to ieiri,” he whispers, a hand cupping your cheek gently. “go. i’ll stop him.”

you both close your eyes, as if the words hurt.

_____

“promise me you’ll always be good.” 

megumi sighs, but places his hand in yours, squeezing it tightly.

“i’ll see what i can do.”

[suhkusa]

EGOIST 14.

PAIRING. Atsumu Miya x f!Reader

CW. plot, angst, sleeping around, atsumu's shenanigans

A/N. beep

-> MASTERLIST.

Atsumu might like you. 

He probably does, but it feels weird and foreign coming out of his mouth, let alone being a thought in his mind.

Never would he have thought he’d have feelings for the likes of you. Romantic, at that.

You were annoying and pesky and there was a point in time  where he’d hate being in a room with you. But somehow you made all of those nasty wants fade away. 

He thought that it’d be easy being so fucked up towards you and steering away from your presence. But then you did avoid him. So he thought finally apologizing to you and not being a dick to you would finally free him. But again, it didn’t.

All of these weak attempts of getting away from you and these thoughts of you were pointless if at the end of the day, you’d still live in his head.

And you don’t even know what you do to him. You make him want to be a good person, to not sleep around with all these women. To tip his drivers. It’s gross and not like him at all. Every word he says to you doesn’t feel like him because every word is full of genuinity and kindness. And it’s scary.

Maybe that’s why he finds himself here. With Angie. 

To try and get rid of the thoughts of you.

He’s naked beside her own naked body, as she rests her head on his biceps. 

“I don’t know why you’re so caught up on her? Didn’t you bully the poor girl?”

���Mm, yeah, like in high school,”

She rolls her eyes before moving a delicate hand onto his chest. 

“C’mon, why don’t we just make it official? I’m tired of hearing about her. That’s all you text me about nowadays,” she looks up at him as she pouts. 

Hell no. 

“Maybe in another life, sweetheart,” he smiles weakly, beginning to slip out of the bed, “Anyways, I have to go to practice, got the playoffs tomorrow.” 

“Aw no, stay a bit,” Angie gives him her weak attempt at puppy eyes. 

“You know I can’t,” he tugs on his last article of clothing before continuing, “And Angie?”

“Hm?” 

“Lose my number,”

———

It’s a shame he had to break it off with her, she was one of his favorites. Not only that, he’s known her the longest. But sometimes things like that are for the better. 

“Hey Atsumu,” your voice calls as he walks in. 

It catches him off guard, but he returns the greeting, “Oh hey,”

He continues to the court, throwing his back down before beginning to hit his stretches. Atsumu watches as you speak to the coach, rambling about something oh so important on your clipboard.

His eyes wander up and down your figure. Part of him wonders what would’ve happened if you two didn’t stop the other night. Would you have given all of you to him?

Atsumu’s gaze follows you as you make your way to Hinata. Laughing and smiling, nodding your head before moving to the next player. Then the next, then to him. He doesn’t realize you’re in front of him until you actually say something.

“I just wanted to check in to make sure you had everything ready for the playoffs, clean uniform, any kneepads?” you asked, clicking your pen.

“Ah, yeah,” he replies, “if anything I just need a new towel I think,”

He watches as you write something down, “Alright, let me know if you need anything else,” you give him a brief smile before moving onto Sakusa.

The way the smile on your face instantly brightens at the sight of Sakusa ticks him off. But there’s not much he could do, not right now at least. 

With a clap of Foster’s hands, all the men get up from their spots and make their way towards him, commencing the final practice before playoffs.

———

Even though you weren’t doing anything physically, you felt nearly as exhausted as the boys were and you instantly fell asleep when you got home. 

And thank god that you did, if you were to sleep any later you might’ve just missed your last alarm. You’re nervous while you get ready. So nervous you can’t even eat breakfast, going for a yogurt drink in its place. You can feel your leg shake with anxiety as it holds on the brake at a stoplight.

After parking your car, you meet up with the guys as you all wait to board the bus. You can tell they’re just as anxious, if not more. Even if this is not their first playoff game, it still means so much and more to their career and for them.

You board the bus, setting your stuff down in the empty seat next to you. Taking your place at the window seat, you immediately open your phone and scroll through your socials. You post an Instagram story to the Jackal’s account as they all board. 

After clicking send, you put your phone down. Time to finally catch up on sleep.

“Y/N,” or not.

“Can I sit here?” 

When you look up you’re met with a man with a messy blonde mop of hair, smiling down at you.

“There’s like, 15 other seats you can choose from and not have a seating partner,” you reply.

“Yeah, I know. Just want to sit here, though,” he fake pouts.

You groan, “Fine,” you begrudgingly grab your bag and tuck it underneath your chair. 

You squish your jacket between your head and window to create a makeshift pillow. You can feel his eyes on you, but ignore and let slumber take you under.

———

You don’t know that you have arrived until you are awoken by a rough hand patting your shoulder.

“C’mon,” Atsumu pushes, “we’re here,”

Holding yourself back from snapping at him, you grouchily gather your things and follow him out the bus. 

You catch up to Foster and give him the itinerary for the day. The two of you discuss the day’s events as the rest of the guys follow behind you. The lot of you locate your spot in the practice gym before settling down. 

You find a little corner to sit in and open your laptop up to review some of the latest matches of today’s opponents, EJP Raijins.

As you scratch notes onto your paper, you listen to the ambience of the guys practicing. The calling for the ball, the sound of skin hitting the ball back onto the ground. 

When you’re in your zone, time flies insanely quickly. It’s scary, because you’re scared for the match. Plus it’s broadcasted on national television, and while you’re not the center of the attention, it’s still nerve wracking to think about.

After finishing what you’re able to, you hand the paper over to the coach, which he then quickly turns to the guys and informs them on the rival team’s techniques. You watch them and help guide them through new techniques and tactics they can use to counterattack. 

They go back onto the practice court and try to practice said attacks. It’s talent, how easily these men can adapt to a situation.

You gnaw on the inside of your mouth as you watch the ball go from one side of the court to the other in a matter of seconds. 

Before you know it, it’s time to go. The guys are changing into their clean uniform, fixing their appearances as camera guys begin to trickle in for any post-game interviews. 

And then it’s go time, and you follow the rest of the guys as they find their way to the main stadium.

All the guys look confident, especially so with all the cameras on them. You put on your best “confident” face as well as you walk beside them.

As you find your spot at the Jackal’s side of the court, you join the team as they huddle up one last time. Coach Foster’s voice is loud and proud as he reminds the guys of what they have been practicing. You smile before giving them a sappy, “you got this!”

The men are excused, and you’re about to head for your seat when you hear his voice.

“Y/N,” he starts, causing you to look up at him, “if we win, you have to go on a date with me,”

© all writings belongs to suhkusa 2024. do not repost or change.

[stellar-haikyuu]

can't keep your hands to yourself ☆ hinata shoyo x reader

synopsis: sometimes, you need a little joy and whimsy in your life. hinata unintentionally delivers. details: fluff | romantic relationship | ~1.1k words | gn! reader | based on my second date with hinata boy! (he’s so cute guys, i can’t do this anymore.)

A month ago, Yachi gave you the username of her best friend’s social media account.

She had done so out of the blue, but she insisted that you give it a try—something about being a good match for each other. 

Over the next few weeks, you find yourself vibrating with excitement whenever you receive a message from him.

He also sends you flowers on Valentine’s when you’re busy in school. It also seems he’s done his research (through Yachi, perhaps), if the cute little stickers he gives you are anything to go by.

The last thing that made you lose your mind? On your first date, he snatches the receipt away from you and pays for your lunch.

Naturally, you don’t back down. To return the favor, you insist on paying for everything next time.

(Next time, you think with a giddy smile).

So, here you are now, in the middle of your second date with Hinata Shoyo.

“That was a good lunch,” you tell him as you exit the curry place you both just ate at.

“I’m glad you enjoyed,” he grins wide, eyes twinkling. “I’m so happy we share similar tastes.”

“Me too.”

While neither of you have explicitly confessed, Yachi and your friends say that he seems to like you. 

And you hope to the gods that is the case, but that’s a discussion for another time.

“So…dessert?” Hinata shrugs, putting his hands in his pockets.

You nod. “What are you thinking of?”

“Uh, there’s this cookie place Yachi talked about the other time.” Hinata scans around the vicinity for the store he’s pertaining to. “There,” he points.

The posters of the pop-up store tell you everything you need to know about their selling point—the cookies were pretty huge.

You turn back to him. “Let’s check it out then. I’ll see if there’s something I like.”

When the both of you get closer, you see the price range. 

“It’s a little overpriced, isn’t it?” Hinata whispers to you, so none of the customers or staff overhear.

“Yep,” you peer at the cookies they have on display near the cashier. Well, they do look tasty, but you’d rather buy something else with the money that you have.

As Hinata looks over the options, you notice a little sign in the corner.

“Lookie, lookie, don’t touch the cookie?” you quietly read to yourself. 

Oh, these are actual products.

Wait-

Before you can say anything, Hinata’s has already reached out to touch the display.

“Hinata,” you whisper-shout. “Those cookies are real.”

“What?” He says, incredulously. “Nah. They’re like the fake ones restaurants use.”

You barely get a chance to grab his arm before he touches the cookies again.

“Hinata-”

“Sir, those are real cookies,” an employee finally says from behind the counter.

For a few seconds, the two of you freeze, unsure of how to react.

A nervous giggle bursts from your mouth and Hinata immediately walks a few feet away. 

You turn around to look at where he’s gone, but the sight of a grown man with his head in his hands is enough to have you doubling over in laughter.

With a hand clapped over your mouth, you physically distance yourself from the store. You’re practically crying and Hinata is close to combusting. There is no need to attract more attention from other customers and staff.

When the pop-up store is out of sight, Hinata’s bright red and you’re still wheezing, holding onto him like a lifeline.

“Oh my gosh.” You wipe at your eyes. “Are you good?”

“Yeah, I am,” Hinata replies, looking a little out of it. He pauses for a while, before giving a new suggestion. “You know what, let’s just go look for some frozen yogurt.”

“Ooooh! I know a place,” you grin at him, pointing straight ahead. “Let’s go.” 

As you slowly recover from the incident, Hinata sighs. “Oh man, I thought they were gonna make me pay for touching it or something.”

“What, why?” 

“Uh, I don’t know…destruction of property?”

You bark out a laugh in response. Man, your cheeks and stomach hurt.

“Eh, I doubt anyone’s eating those cookies. After a whole day of exposure to the public air? No thank you.” You shake your head. “Besides, they should’ve just kept the cookies behind a clear barrier if they really wanted all hands off. I can already imagine all the kids who can’t resist a touch.”

You await his reply, but he only hums and goes silent. It worries you a little.

“Hinata-”

“Do you think I’m too childish?” His voice is much softer this time around.

“No.” You answer truthfully, surprised by the sudden change in tone. “What- why?” 

Oh.

Oh, crap. Was it what I said?

“It’s just…uh…” Hinata scratches his head, avoiding your gaze as you two walk. “I don’t know, but what happened back there was pretty embarrassing.”

“What? No! It’s alright.” You shake your head vigorously. “You didn’t see the sign.”

“There was a sign?!”

“Yeah, but it was really tiny. Plus, I was in the way, so you wouldn’t have seen it. Not your fault.”

“But…” Hinata hesitates.

“Hey, I swear.” You place a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it gently. “It’s fine, Hinata. I promise. I have my fair share of silly moments too. It’s not just you.”

“You sure?” His eyes dart over to you. 

“Yes. What good would it do for me to lie to you?” You give him a gentle smile. “Now come on, let’s get that yogurt before the line gets longer!”

Hinata, ever the gentleman, walks you back to your dorm.

You find yourself wishing the date wouldn’t end, but your residential building is already in sight.

“Aww,” you pout. “Looks like I’ll have to go already.”

“Well, we have next week!” He chirps. “Your birthday party’s coming up soon, right?”

You nod. “Mhm, can’t wait to see you there!”

The two of your pause for a few seconds, wondering how to part ways on the sidewalk. 

“So, I’ll see you around!” Hinata quickly pats your shoulder, the same way he did on your first date.

But something else compels you to do more.

Just before he increases the distance between the two of you, you reach your hand out to grab his.

You see the shock in his eyes during the few seconds your hands stay connected. 

In that moment, you feel the wind knocked out of your chest.

His hands feel so nice in mine.

You give it one final squeeze, before gently letting go.

And as you tell him to take care on the way home, you realize that you also can’t keep your hands to yourself.

masterlist

[holylulusworld]

Mr. Dickbeard

Summary: Your boss’s best friend is the worst.

Pairing: Lloyd Hansen x fem!Reader

Warnings: Lloyd being Lloyd, bimbo reader, groping, implied smut

“Bimbo, bring me a coffee,” your boss’s best friend and the worst man you ever met in your life barks your way. He snaps his fingers and waltzes over to your desk. His expensive loafers squeak on the floor, making you wince. “Did you not hear me?”

You purse your lips and reply, “You’re not my boss.” He glares at you as the whole open-plan office falls silent. “Why don’t you get your coffee yourself?”

“BIMBO!” Lloyd Hansen, self-declared master of your life, growls. “I told you to get me coffee!”

“Lloyd, what’s the matter?” Mr. Gentry opened the door to his office to poke his head out. “Do we have an appointment? I thought you were going to be in London for two more weeks.”

“Those idiots didn’t get my humor,” Hansen grumbles under his breath. “These fine gentlemen want to seal the deal with some arrogant fucker! A waste of money and time. Plus, the girls there are uptight as shit. I didn’t get my dick sucked for two weeks.”

You scrunch up your nose and look away. Lloyd Hansen, your boss’s best friend, is just the worst. He’s loud, misogynistic, and a perv. Oh, and he loves to talk about his dick and mustache all the time.

Sometimes you ask yourself why Mr. Gentry is friends with this man. Your boss is a nice guy, always friendly and helpful.

Hansen glares at you. His jaw ticks as your boss calls his name. He doesn’t look away, sneering as you shift in your seat. “Coming. Don’t get your panties in a twist,” he grunts. “I need to take a piss first.”

Scrunching up your nose again, you try to not speak your mind. Most of the time, when you get angry, you start to babble.

“Lloyd, can you just not?” Your boss shakes his head. “Damn, he must’ve had a bad time in London.”

You giggle at your boss’s words. He’s so cute and funny. What a pity he’s married. You could fall for him.

“Could you please get him a coffee with lots of sugar? I think he’ll need it,” Mr. Gentry softly asks. “You must excuse my friend; he speaks before he thinks.”

“Fucking bimbo getting on my fucking nerves,” Lloyd mutters in the restroom. He tried to get a stain out of his pants and took them off. “It’s no use.”

“Uh—Mr. Hansen,” you giggle as you walk in on Lloyd. He’s only wearing a thong, barely hiding anything. You can see his happy trail as his shirt rid up. “Sir, your dickbeard is showing.” You point at his crotch, giggling and snorting as you can see his pubic hair and half of his left sack.

He stares at you, anger in his eyes. “What are you doing at the men’s restroom, bimbo?”

“Sir, this is the ladies’ restroom, and you are dressed inappropriately.” You try to keep the giggle wanting to escape your lips down your throat. Hansen already looks like he’s going to combust as he looks down at his body to adjust his thong.

“I think the boys don’t like this kind of underwear,” you say, and nod to yourself. "Hmm...or...is this a hairnet?” You suddenly say, earning an angry look from Lloyd. “Like the ones in the cafeteria, only for your dickbeard.”

“I can’t believe you can walk upright like a normal human with only half a brain and no filter for your stupid mouth,” he comments and goes back to scrubbing his pants clean.

“Oh, a stain,” you hum and step closer to get a better look at his pants. “What is it? Milk. Cream. Yogurt?”

Lloyd squares his jaw. He won’t tell you that he jerked off in the toilet cubicle like some loser only because he had the chance to yell at you again.

“Maybe you should lick it clean to find out,” he smirks darkly and chuckles as you swipe your index finger over the stain. “Go ahead, put that tongue to better use for once.”

“You know,” you look down at his barely covered crotch and the prominent erection he’s not even hiding. “for a man pretending to hate me, you’re very happy to see me.”

“Shut up, bimbo,” he growls and grabs you by your arms. “I told you not to get cocky, only because I ate that cunt once.”

“Thrice,” you coo and move your hand to his crotch, cupping him roughly. “You can’t get enough of me. I know it.”

“You don’t have enough brain cells to know shit.” He roughly grabs you by your shoulders, trying to push you down on your knees. “The only thing you’re good for is sucking dick.”

“Well, not today,” you smirk and drop your hand from his crotch. “You won’t get any until you apologize.”

You push him off you and twirl around to walk out of the restroom.

“Wait, we aren’t done here. You can’t make me hard and leave me hanging!”

“If you want to get to taste my pussy again, you’ll buy me a fucking diamond ring,” you snap at Lloyd and storm out of the room.

“How did we end up whipped by a bimbo and her pussy,” Lloyd says to himself as he looks at his erection. “You fucker always get me in trouble.”

Part 2

Tags in reblog.

[brightlight-dazzlingeyes]

Hey girl I adore ur story can you do Pablo Gavi story friends with benefits please?

Thank you also take your time 💋

hey, thank you!

and thanks for the suggestion, you didn’t give me a lot of details so i hope you like the way i wrote it 🧡🧡

pretty please | pablo gavi

🧁 synopsis: Pablo and you decide to turn your friendly casual hook-ups into a "no-strings-attached" arrangement – it sounds like the perfect plan: easy, fun, and uncomplicated. If only he weren’t so annoyingly impossible. tags: friends with benefits, banter, pablo being annoying, light smut. (written in 2nd person but no mention of yn) (around 1.8k words)

It’s supposed to be easy. That’s the whole point.

You’re perched on the kitchen counter, swinging your legs as he rifles through your fridge like he lives here. Like this is just a normal Tuesday night between friends who happen to sleep together.

“You seriously don’t have anything?” Gavi complains, holding up a sad-looking yogurt before tossing it back inside.

You shrug, biting back a grin. “It’s not my job to feed you.”

He turns to you, exasperated but amused, and points a finger. “Yeah, but I’m the one burning all the calories here. You should at least stock snacks.”

You roll your eyes, laughing as he leans against the counter across from you. He just came straight from training, but doesn’t look tired, though – he never does. Always has this kind of energy that makes it hard to say no when he texts, “You home?”

It’s easy, the way this goes. He shows up, sometimes with food, sometimes empty-handed. You make fun of him, he makes fun of you, and eventually you end up tangled in your sheets. There’s no guessing games, no overthinking. It’s simple.

“You’re staring,” he says, breaking the quiet.

“No, I’m not.”

He smirks, stepping closer until he’s standing between your knees. He rests his hands on either side of you, palms flat on the counter. “You’re staring because you’re thinking.”

“Thinking about how annoying you are? Yeah, probably.”

He laughs, close enough now that you can smell his cologne and feel the faint heat coming off his skin. “Don’t think so hard,” he says, nudging his nose against yours in that way he does when he’s trying to distract you. “We said no thinking, remember?”

And you do. That was the rule – no overthinking, no expectations, no strings. It’s supposed to be fun. It is fun.

So you kiss him and he kisses you back. You pull back just long enough to tug your shirt over your head, and before it even hits the floor, he’s grinning like an idiot.

“Cute bra.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Shut the fuck up.”

“What? I’m complimenting you.” He holds his hands up, like he’s innocent, but there’s that stupid smirk plastered on his face, the one that always makes you want to kiss him and smack him at the same time.

“Yeah, well, maybe keep it to yourself.”

“Sorry, can’t. It’s a cute bra. Floral’s a good look on you.”

You groan, pushing at his chest, but he barely moves. “You’re ruining this.”

“Am I?” He leans in again, so close you can feel his breath against your cheek. “Because I don’t think I am.”

You roll your eyes so hard you almost see the back of your skull, but you don’t stop him when he kisses you again. His hands slide to your waist, fingers grazing skin, and the teasing melts into something slower, softer. For a second, you forget you’re supposed to be annoyed.

Then –

“Seriously, though, is it new? I don’t think I’ve seen this one before.”

You groan into his mouth and pull back, pushing his face away this time. “Oh my God, shut up.”

He’s laughing now, head tilted back, completely unbothered. “What? I’m observant!”

“You’re on thin ice, Pablo,” you mutter as you tug him by the shirt toward your room.

He stumbles after you, still grinning like he just won something. “Thin ice is still ice, cariño. I’ll take it.”

Your room is flawless – bed perfectly made, floors clear, not a single thing out of place. You’ve always been like this, a little too upkept, but it doesn’t stop Gavi from throwing himself onto your bed like he���s at home.

“Shoes off,” you snap immediately, pointing at him.

He freezes mid-flop like you’ve caught him committing a crime. “Relax, relax. I forgot!”

“You didn’t forget. You just think rules don’t apply to you.”

He’s smiling as he kicks off his sneakers, letting them hit the pristine floor with two thuds. You wince at the sound but say nothing because arguing with him would take all night. Instead, you cross your arms and stare at him.

Gavi stretches across your bed, arms flung dramatically to the sides, eyes closing like he’s exhausted. “This is what heaven must feel like.”

“I’m starting to think you only come over to mess up my stuff.”

“Not true,” he says, grin still lazy. “I also come over for you.”

You snort. “That’s sweet. Real poetic.”

“I try.” He turns onto his side now, eyes scanning your features.

“Is that your best line?”

“No, my best line worked when I got you to agree to this whole thing.”

You hate that he’s right, so you say nothing, but he keeps looking at you, waiting, until you finally sigh and crawl onto the bed beside him. You settle into the spot next to him, and he immediately throws an arm over your waist.

It goes on the way it always does: him teasing, you rolling your eyes, both of you pretending this is just another night. Like he’s not half on top of you, your legs tangled, his arm still heavy around your waist.

“You’re taking up all the space,” you complain, pushing at his shoulder.

“Your bed’s too small,” he shoots back.

“I like it this way.”

He hums like he’s considering it. You’re about to start arguing again when he leans down and presses his mouth to yours, cutting off whatever comeback you had ready. It’s not fair, really, how easy he makes this – how natural it feels to kiss him.

It’s still light, though. Easy. He bites at your bottom lip, gentle but enough to make you flinch back.

“Ow!”

“What?” he says, all innocent. “You looked like you were getting distracted.”

“Oh, you’re dead.”

You bite his shoulder – not hard, just enough to make him jerk and laugh.

“You’re crazy.”

“You started it.”

He shakes his head, still grinning, and rolls onto his back, pulling you with him until you’re sprawled half on top of him. Your hand smacks his chest, and he catches your wrist, holding it there. The smile lingers on his lips, but something in his eyes softens when he looks at you.

You pause. Just for a second.

And then he flips you over, laughing when you yelp, your hair falling into your face.

“You’re annoying,” you mumble, brushing it back.

“Yeah, but you love it.”

You want to argue, but he’s right. It’s annoying how good this feels, how good he feels. The way he knows how to make you laugh, even now, when he’s supposed to be focused. You run your fingers along the back of his neck, just to make him shiver, and he shoots you a look. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m starting.”

He growls – actually growls – and nips at your collarbone in revenge, making you squeal and kick at him, but you’re both laughing, breathless and tangled together like you don’t know where you end and he begins.

It all quickly turns into soft gasps and muffled laughter, and teasing comments exchanged between kisses. He mutters something about your elbow being sharp (“You’re doing it on purpose, I know it.”), and you whisper something mean about his hair (“Looks like a bird’s nest.”), and neither of you really mean any of it.

Eventually, it quiets. The teasing gives way to something nicer, your hands tracing lazy patterns on his back, his thumb brushing along your cheekbone like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“Comfortable?” he murmurs, his voice low, a little rough.

“Mmhmm.” You don’t say anything else because you don’t need to. It’s good like this, like you’ve done it a hundred times before and still have a hundred more to go.

“I’m going in, alright? Hold on to me,” he whispers.

You swallow hard, your fingers already gripping his arms. “Just do it already.” You try to sound impatient, like you’re not affected, but your voice betrays you – soft, breathless.

Gavi huffs out a short laugh, shaking his head like you’re impossible, and then kisses you – hard. It’s not gentle or teasing like before; it’s a punishment, his mouth moving over yours until you forget how to breathe, until all you can think about is him and the way he feels.

And then he goes in, and everything stills for a moment.

It’s like every nerve in your body lights up at once, a fever spreading from your chest to your fingertips, leaving you feeling dizzy – like you’re floating, delirious and weightless. Your eyes flutter open, just barely, and you find him watching you. His expression is different now, like he’s seeing you and feeling everything all at once.

He looks like you feel, like he’s lost in this with you.

“You good?” he murmurs, his forehead nearly pressed against yours, voice soft but thick like he can barely get the words out.

You try to answer, but all you can do is nod. Your hand slides up to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, because that’s all you can think to do.

You lose track of time somewhere between all your favorite positions and all your favorite spots in the room – him pulling you to the edge of the bed, you shoving him into the chair by the window, both of you collapsing onto the rug at some point like you couldn’t even make it to a proper surface.

By the time it’s over, you’re both breathless, dripping in sweat, tangled up like you couldn’t be bothered to move. But after a second, you push at his shoulder with a groan.

“Ew, you’re disgusting, get off.”

He laughs, loud and unbothered, and instead of rolling away like a normal person, he hooks his arms around you, pressing his gross, sweaty chest against yours. “Disgusting? I was inside of you two seconds ago. Come here.”

“No!” You wriggle free, squealing, and bolt off the bed.

You’re naked, which makes this all the more ridiculous – darting around the room as he chases after you, both of you laughing so hard you can barely see straight.

“Pablo, fuck off!”

“Why are you running? Accept your fate!”

He lunges and grabs your waist, pulling you back against him as you shriek. He plants a loud, obnoxious kiss on your cheek and then, just as you’re recovering, lands a playful slap to your butt.

You gasp, smacking his arm. He winks at you, already grabbing his clothes from the floor. He looks far too pleased with himself. “Thanks, that was a nice cardio.”

You roll your eyes, collapsing onto the mattress again, finally catching your breath. “You’re welcome…”

He pulls his shirt over his head, “Generous as always.”

You grab the nearest pillow and throw it at him, but he’s already laughing, ducking out of the way like he knew it was coming.

It’s easy. Too easy.

And as he finishes dressing and runs a hand through his mess of hair, you can’t help but smile to yourself – because for now, this is good.

For now, you’ll take it.

[theweasleytwinsownmyjuicyass]

Yogurt | L.N.

Lando Norris x reader

Summary: what's is the best way to show your crush you like him if not by eating yogurt together?

Warnings: fluff/comedy<3

Word count: ~1,8K

“Hey Lan, look what I got!” you excitedly waved the spoon around, a sparkle in your eye.

A smile instantly found a place on Lando’s face, hearing your voice just did that to him these days. He turned to face you but soon enough the smile fell and he let out a scream inside. NO GOD NO!

There you stood before him, so incredibly excited and happy with a carton of yogurt in your hand and Lando knew that he couldn’t run away now, you’ve caught him once again.

“Sadly there was only one left, but we can share!” you sat next to him on the soft sofa overlooking the track.

Gosh you lived for these little moments between you two, because it was literally the only time you two could be together uninterrupted for at least a while and talk about everything and anything.

“Oh that’s great…” Lando tried to feign excitement but he didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up…

As the two of you sat there sharing the small carton of yogurt you couldn’t not tell him all about the new book you’ve read. The yogurt was long gone, but you still kept going, describing every single character and your favourite scenes to Lando who was listening intently.

“And then he totally lost it! Like he’s been losing it since the start, but this was the total culmination where we got to see just how messed up he actually is. He was literally shooting into hallucinations of her! Dude really got one heartbreak and turned completely ins-” your rant was cut short as Lando leaped out of his seat and hurried away and out of the cafeteria.

You sat there now in complete stillness, confused as to what made him act out in such a way. What worried you most was that he always seemed to run off after your little chats. You weren’t going to lie to yourself, but that kind of hurt…

The first time it happened you were absolutely heartbroken. Like how could you not be! The guy you have a crush on running away from you! But after that Lando apologised to you and everything was back to normal. Up until he did that again and again… and again. Yes he’d apologise after every single time, but it was starting to drive you nuts!

“Awesome,” you let out an expiated sign and leave the cafeteria once again with your head hung low.

The next time you see Lando is about an hour later at practise and make yourself a mental note to ignore him, since you could no longer take his weird behaviour and fake apologies.

You’re just about to walk out of the garage when you heard a thud of something or rather someone falling to the floor and a group of shocked intakes of breath echoed around the place.

“Lando!” air was knocked out of your chest the moment you saw him lying on the floor, face a pale white and glistening with sweat.

You kneeled next to him with a few of his team members, “Help me put him on the couch,” your hands were trembling as you assisted the older man to pick Lando up. Your hands were braced under his head holding it softly, afraid to harm him in any way.

“Lando? Lando wake up,” you caressed his forehead lightly, wiping away the curls that were starting to stick to his damp skin.

It didn’t take long before his eyes fluttered open and connected with your gaze.

“Lando, are you okay?” concern was etched into your features, eyebrows furrowed, soft hands still raking through his hair.

“I’m fine, don’t worry,” he sat up patting your hand, clearly not helping your mind ease.

“You look pale Lan, are you sure?” you pushed seriously concerned for his wellbeing.

“Yeah, trust me, it happens sometimes, nothing to worry about” he gives you a quick smile before stumbling off to his room.

Pure confusion of what just happened was etched into your features. What the hell is up with this guy?!

Even if you felt confused by his actions you still felt bad that he fainted.

 Why does a person faint? Dehydration? Not eating enough? That sounds like something that could have happened to Lando since he’s always too preoccupied with doing anything else but actually eating his meals or getting enough water until it was too late.

You run to the convenience store that’s close to the track and buy a few packets of yogurt, some flavourless, some with strawberries. You think he’ll like that since one time he talked for an hour about a strawberry tart he had in London.

Your hands softly knock on his door before you enter.

“Hey, I got you some yogurt, thought it might pick up your mood,” you offer him the three yogurt packets and a complementary spoon from the hospitality.

”Oh! That’s … great actually, exactly what I needed right now,” he grabs the yogurt out of your arms and thanks you before eating spoonful’s of it. You smile watching him go through two packets so eagerly. ‘Poor boy was so hungry’ you think.

On the other hand Lando is doing everything in his power to keep the damn yogurt down his throat, but even the smell was now irritating his whole being.

But he couldn’t just not eat it. You got it for him, just for him. And god he knew how much he was messing up these past few weeks he didn’t want to make another stupid move that will make sure he never sees you closer than 10 feet away from him.

‘You got this Lando, just few more spoons and you make the girl happy. You got this man’ he repeated that as his mantra until his body betrayed him. Turns out no, he did not ‘got this’.

You watched with impending horror as Lando launched himself out of the chair and into the bathroom before an array of sounds followed as he emptied his insides into the toilet.

You stood behind the door not knowing what to do but extremely concerned about the boy’s condition.

“Lan?”

“Please don’t come in here Y/n,” his voice was tainted with desperation and as much as worry spurred you to see him you also had understanding for the boy and sat yourself back down on the sofa.

At that time Oscar came into the room.

“Oh Y/n, have you seen Lando? I’ve been looking all over for him, it’s like he disappeared,” the boy sat next to you on the sofa.

“He’s in there,” you pointed at the closed bathroom door with an apologetic expression and Oscar nodded his head silently understanding more about the situation than he let on.

It was only a few minutes later that Lando emerged from the bathroom smelling of fresh toothpaste and with red blotches covering his damp face.

“Lan? Are you sure you okey? Seems like you’ve caught some kind of tummy bug,” your eyebrows pulled together as you assessed the teary eyed boy standing before you.

Lando only sat down at his table and opened the water bottle before taking a sip and letting out a sign.

Oscar was done with the situation after having been in it for all of 2 minutes and decided to push his friend in the right direction for once.

“Lando, for the love of God, please tell her!“ Oscar sounded expiated as he stood from the sofa in frustration, something that looked so foreign on the usually silent boy.

“Tell me what?” your eyes danced between the two boys who now held intense eye contact with each other.

“He’s lactose intolerant for God’s sake!” Oscar was the one to break the silent conversation between the two boys.

“Nooooo!” Lando screeched out at the same time as Oscar admitted his secret to you.

“Oh my god Lando! Why didn’t you tell me! You’ve been getting sick and it’s all my fault!” you clawed at your face hot with embarrassment. Now it all made sense why he’d hurry away from you after your little yogurt dates. Gosh how did you not notice it?!

“Because I like you! And you’d always offer me some of it and I just couldn’t say no because I thought you’d take it the wrong way…” Lando’s gaze was stuck to the floor and his shoulders slumped in defeat, not only did he already feel a fool he also admitted his feelings to you and was getting ready for your sweet rejection.

“Gosh I thought I was the one being slick always offering you some yogurt, just to show that I like you, but then you’d run off and I just thought that the yogurt was all we had.” Your hand raked through your hair anxiously. Yes Lando was the first one to admit his feelings but that did not make it easier for you to say as doubts still covered you.

“You thought that I was being with you just for the yogurt?” Lando stepped closer and smoothed his hand over your hair, putting the strands back into place with a soft touch.

“It sounds stupid I know, but yeah…” your eyes lifted to connect with his adoring eyes. His sweet gaze calmed your heart and you leaned into his touch, reassured by his presence.

“Well good thing you now know that it has nothing to do with the yogurt,” the room erupted in your harmonious chuckles before his lips softy landed on your forehead, once again claiming his affection towards you.

The moment was so personal that neither of you noticed when Oscar silently slipped out of the room leaving it just for the two of you, but you were none the less thankful for his kind understanding.

Later that night you and Lando were watching movies in his apartment, cuddled up on the huge foamy sofa before the TV. Your hand was making soft circles on his tummy, rubbing away the pain.

There was only a faint sound of the movie that engulfed the room until you spoke up with a teasing smile.

“I still can’t believe you were doing that to yourself just because you liked me.”

Lando lifted his face from your chest so he could face you before he answered.

“What’s a little sickness if I get to see you smile?”

^^

[thejoyofseax]

Why We Can't Have Medieval Food

I noted in a previous post that I'd "expand on my thinking on efforts to reproduce period food and how we’re just never going to know if we have it right or not." Well, now I have 2am sleep?-never-heard-of-it insomnia, so let's go.

At the fundamental level, this is the idea that you can't step in the same river twice. You can put your foot down at the same point in space, and it'll go into water, but that's different water, and the bed of the river has inevitably changed, even a little, from the last time you did so.

Our ingredients have changed. This is not just because we can't get the fat from fat-tailed sheep in Ireland, or silphium at all anywhere, although both of those are true. But the aubergine you buy today is markedly different to the aubergine that was available even 40 years ago. You no longer need to salt aubergine slices and draw out the bitter fluids, which was necessary for pretty much all of the thing's existence before (except in those cultures that liked the bitter taste). The bitterness has been bred out of them. And the old bitter aubergine is gone. Possibly there are a few plants of it preserved in some archive garden, or a seed bank, or something, but I can't get to those.

We don't really have a good idea of the plant called worts in medieval English recipes. I mean, we know (or we're fairly sure) it was brassica oleracea. But that one species has cultivars as distinct as cabbage, broccoli, cauliflower, kale, Brussels sprouts, collard greens, Savoy cabbage, kohlrabi, and gai lan (list swiped from Wikipedia). And even within "cabbage" or "kale", you have literally dozens of varieties. If you plant the seeds from a brassica, unless you've been moderately careful with pollination, you won't get the same plant as the seeds are from. You can crossbreed brassicas just by planting them near each other and letting them flower. And of course there is no way to determine what varietal any medieval village had, a very high likelihood that it was different to the village next door, and an exceedingly high chance that that varietal no longer exists. Further, it only ever existed for a few tens of years - before it went on cross-breeding into something different. So our access to medieval worts (or indeed, cabbage, kale, etc) is just non-existant.

Some other species within the brassica genus are as varied. Brassica rapa includes oilseed rape, field mustard, turnip, Chinese cabbage, and pak choi.

We have an off-chance, as it happens, of getting almost the same kind of apple as some medieval varieties, because apples can only be reproduced for orchard use by grafting, which is essentially cloning. Identification through paintings, DNA analysis, and archaeobotany sometimes let us pin down exactly which apple was there. But the conditions under which we grow those apples are probably not the same as the medieval orchard. Were they thinned? When were they harvested? How were they stored? And apples are pretty much the best case.

Medieval wheat was practically a different plant. It was far pickier about where it would grow, and frequently produced 2-4 grains per stalk. A really good year had 6-8. In modern conditions, any wheat variety with less than 30 grains per stalk would be considered a flop.

Meats are worse. Selective breeding in the last century has absolutely and completely changed every single species of livestock, and if you follow that back another five centuries, some of them would be almost unrecognisable. Even our heritage breeds are mostly only about 200 years old.

Cheese, well. Cheese is dependent on very specific bacteria, and there are plenty of conditions where the resulting cheese is different depending on whether it was stored at the back or front of the cave. Yogurts, quarks, skyrs, etc, are also live cultures, and almost certainly vary massively. (I have a theory about British cheese here, too, which I'll expand on in a future post)

So, even before you go near the different cooking conditions (wood, burnables like camel and cow dung, smoke, the material and condition of cooking pots), we just can't say with any reliability that the food we're making now is anything like medieval people produced from the same recipe. We can't even say that with much reliability over a century.

Under very controlled conditions, you could make an argument for very specific dishes. If you track down a wild mountain sheep in Afghanistan, and use water from a local spring, and salt from some local salt mine, then you can make a case that you can produce something fairly close to the original ma wa milh, the water-and-salt stew that forms the most basic dish in Arabic cookery. But once you start introducing domestic livestock, vegetables, or even water from newer wells, you're now adrift.

It is possible that some dishes taste exactly the same, by coincidence. But we can't determine that. We can't compare the taste of a dish from five years ago, let alone five hundred, because we're only just getting to a state where we can "record" a taste accurately. Otherwise it's memory and chance.

We've got to be at peace with this. We can put in the best efforts we can, and produce things that are, in spirit, like the medieval dishes we're reading about. But that's as good as it gets.

[dustofthedailylife]

Cereal Debates

→ Masterlist || → Taglist

Pairing: Alhaitham x (gn!) Reader

Summary: You get the urge to tease your boyfriend every once in a while. And today was another day like that. And what better way to do that than to bring up the age-old question: Is cereal soup?

Tags: Crack, a bit of fluff toward the end

A/N: I wrote this like a possessed woman when I thought about the idea. Especially since Alhaitham HATES soup... and don't we all want to rile him up at times? I sure as hell do, especially since he made me lose three 50/50s on his banner now -.-

You sat on the sofa in the living room, flipping through the daily newspaper and eating a bowl of yogurt with fruits for breakfast. 

You suddenly hear the floorboards in the direction of the bedroom creak and not too long after you could hear a yawn and some feet shuffling towards the living room.

“Good Morning.” Alhaitham groaned sleepily. 

He rubbed his eyes and squinted as soon as he was faced with the morning sun falling in through the windows. He had always been somewhat of a morning grump and to be honest, it sort of made him look cute.

The disheveled hair and clothes, the imprint of his pillow still on his cheek, the sleepy expression, and the frown as he slurped his coffee in silence every morning. It took all your willpower not to jump and squeeze him tightly. No one would think someone like Alhaitham could manage to look so adorable, but you had proof he did.

“Good Morning! Slept well?”

“Mhm.” He hummed briefly before vanishing into the kitchen without another word. Like mentioned before - morning grump.

You could hear him press the button on the coffee machine before a familiar buzzing sound could be heard from the same device. He seemed to also get himself something to eat since you could hear him clink some bowls together.

Not long after, he emerged from the kitchen with a steaming cup of black coffee and a bowl in hand and sat down at the dining table.

When you decided to join him, your eyes couldn’t help but fall onto the bowl. It was a bowl of cornflakes that he was expressionlessly shoveling into his mouth.

You amusedly bit your lip because you knew he usually hated everything soup-like, and cereal was no exception to that. And you sometimes couldn’t help but want to tease him a little. And this morning the perfect opportunity presented itself to you.

“Never thought I’d see the day you'd eat soup out of your own volition.” You smirked, knowing full well that you said “soup” and not “cereal”.

“We had no more bread left.” He explained with another grumble, putting another spoon full of cornflakes in his mouth before suddenly pausing in his movement and looking back at you completely irritated. “What did you say?” He inquired horrified, with his mouth still half-full.

“I said, I never thought I see you eat soup voluntarily.”

He knitted his brows further before gulping and pointing at his bowl. “This is cereal.”

“Yes, I’m well aware of what it is. I have eyes. Cereal can be considered a soup-like dish.” You stated matter of factly as you bit back a smirk. 

You pretended to go back to eating your yogurt and reading your newspaper but you could see his completely shocked and low-key annoyed expression from the corner of your eye.

“Cereal is not soup. Cereal is cereal.” He grumbled.

“Is that so?” You raised an eyebrow in amusement.

“Yes. Soup is a liquid food, especially with meat, fish, or vegetable stock as a base and often contains pieces of solid food.” He recited the definition he knew, only Archons know where, from. Suppressing laughter became harder and harder by the minute, especially seeing how serious he was taking this debate all of a sudden.

“Especially with meat, fish, or vegetable…”, you pondered putting an emphasis on the first word. “So that means it is mostly cooked that way but not always. So milk can serve as a base just as fine. And technically if you use soy milk or pea milk it would count as vegetable stock, no?”

You could see the muscles in his jaw tense as he gazed at you, thinking hard of what to reply. You could practically see the gears turn in his head before he started to smirk triumphantly. You knew him well enough to know that he must’ve come up with, what he thought was, an irrefutable argument.

“There is something you just said. Cooked. No heating in the process of making a bowl of cereal whatsoever. It’s served cold - therefore it isn’t soup.” He leaned back in the chair with a self-satisfied grin, expecting you not to be able to counter his argument further.

But he shouldn’t count the chickens before they’re hatched.

You stayed silent for a minute and already had a counterargument in your head from the get-go. You just wanted to wait until he took a sip from his coffee before you dropped it.

“Explain Gazpacho then.”

You could see his eyes widen and train on you over the rim of his cup before he put it back on the table with a loud thud. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking annoyed once more.

“What about French Vichyssoise? Also not soup according to you, just because they’re served cold?”

“Okay, I get it.” He grumbled once again, before pondering for a brief moment. “But all of these soups have something in common.”

“Oh? Please enlighten me, Grand Sage.” You continued your teasing.

“It’s Acting Grand Sage.” He emphasized, lightly rolling his eyes with a huff. “But anyway. Soup isn’t sweet. Neither of the ones you named is sweet. They’re savory. Cereal is always sweet.”

He smirked at you once again, fully believing he now had you cornered.

Wrong.

“Ginataang Bilo-Bilo, Koldskål, Zenzai…” You started listing sweet soup dishes from all over the world, watching how his face showed an ever-so-slight hint of surprise as well as horror.

“Now you’re just making things up.” He huffed.

“Want me to show you the soup recipe book we have over there on the shelf? Not that you ever looked at it.” You replied with a teasing lilt.

He had his hand clutched so tightly around his spoon by now that his knuckles were beginning to turn white. You knew he hated losing arguments and battles of wits and this wasn’t going in the direction he had imagined at all. Much to your amusement, however. You could practically see little clouds of steam rise from his head because his brain was racing at a million miles per hour. You just knew he was wrecking his brain to come up with a counterargument once again.

“Okay.” he finally said getting up and grabbing something from the kitchen. He came back with a triumphant smile as he placed a raw, unpeeled potato on the table in front of you.

“What’s this?” He asked, motioning in your direction.

“A… potato?” You replied in confusion, unsure where he was trying to go with this.

“Correct.” He nodded, putting one finger on his chin after placing a bowl of dry cereal right next to it and looking at you expectantly.

“That’s cereal.”

“Also correct.”

“Alhaitham, I’m not sure I follow.” You raised an eyebrow at him, still highly amused about how invested he was in this crack debate.

“A potato is a condiment you can make soup from. But a potato by itself is just that - a potato. You have to prepare it in a special way in order for it to become soup. The same goes for everything else you named. Cereal is always cereal, whether it swims in milk, water, broth, or nothing at all.”

“Okay, fair. Can’t refute that argument.” You admitted with a nod, hearing a small sigh of relief from the other side of the table.

You were no longer able to hold back your laughter now that you looked at his borderline exhausted and relieved expression.

“What? Don’t tell me you still have a counterargument?” He inquired as his eyes widened.

You shook your head. “No, I don’t. You should see your face right now though, it’s hilarious. I was just trying to tease you a bit, I didn’t think you’d get this invested.” You wiped a tear out of the corner of your eyes as you continued giggling.

“You–” He grumbled playfully as he clenched his jaw before he started smiling. “Come here!”

He got up from his chair and lifted you out of yours, walking over to the sofa, and throwing you down it together with himself. He started tickling your sides while holding you tightly to his chest so you couldn’t escape his playful attack.

Out of breath from laughing so much you leaned your forehead against his chest before snaking your arms around him.

“I love you, you dork.” 

“I love you, too.” He replied, lifting your chin up and pressing a featherlight kiss on your lips. “Even if you start arguments about soup with me first thing in the morning. You’re lucky you’re so cute.”

Do not repost, copy, translate or edit - © dustofthedailylife || reblogs, comments, and asks about Genshin or my fics are always greatly appreciated and motivate me! Maple dividers are mine - do not copy.

[wolfiesmoon]

Hiiii! (I hope this is the place to make requests aaaaa haven’t done this in a W H I L E) but can I request pocky challenge headcanons for Floyd, Vil, and Idia? :)

Hope you’re having a great week and I love your writing :D

the way i freaked out over receiving this omg i'm so happy u like my writing😭😭😭

i love pocky challenge fics and you really fed me with the characters you chose since I have like 3467346826428 vil and idia drafts i can't get into rn. also we already know how my brain is rotting over floyd the eel boy at the moment

ALSO ALSO ALSO you aren't dating yet in these!! you're still just friends (but not for long😈)

(@kairiscorner i borrowed ur idea of picking out what flavour would fit them to add a little spice, I hope u don't mind!)

☾⋆⁺₊ Floyd Leech + Pocky Colorful

he gets really excited when you pull out the box of pockies 😆i mean, sharing food with you????? that's, like, the third best thing he can do with you!

and these pockies look rlly funny too, what does "colorful" even taste like? He's kinda in a mood to find out 😌

and gets even MORE excited when you mention the challenge!!!!

I mean, kissing AND sharing food with you?! he calls that a win for sure 😤😤😤😤

you're rlly surprised at how casual he is about it considering you just challenged him to try and kiss you essentially

but okay, i guess it is kinda Floydcore to just casually agree to a pocky game with no blushing or getting flustered (i suppose this means he likes you back??? what a mystery he is...)

you laugh to yourself at the silly grin on his face as u pull out a pocky and place one end into your mouth, leaning towards him to let him take the other end

he does so and you close your eyes, feeling kinda giddy all of a sudden

but you can still feel his downturned peepers staring a hole into you, curious to see every facial movement and reaction you may have👁️👁️

he must be really excited then!! (even if you feel extremely unsettled rn)

you slowly bite down on the stick, getting nervous. you can definitely hear him crunching on it too...

you can feel his breath, your noses bump for a moment and you think "THIS IS IT THIS IS IT THIS IS IT"

but then you hear a *snap* and the pocky falls out of your mouth... what just happened?

"I bit into it a bit too hard..." You open your eyes to see Floyd pouting like a toddler who was told he can't have candy

"It's okay, we can do it again!" you take out another pocky stick, placing the end in your mouth and looking at him expectantly

must be hard having such sharp teeth sometimes💔

"Now I don't feel like it anymore." Floyd huffed, getting up and walking away💀

That little... you still love him anyway tho🤷🏻

☾⋆⁺₊ Vil Schoenheit + Apple Yogurt Pocky

initially, he'd refuse since pockies are sweets and he needs to watch his sugar if he wants to keep his model figure and his clear skin

but he supposes sugar is nice to enjoy every once in a while (especially if he gets to share it with you)

but THEN you ask him if he's ever heard of the pocky challenge before😈

"I have heard of it in passing but I don't know what is actually is, why?" he raises an eyebrow, recalling some comments from his fans talking about it after the Pocky commercial he was in

"Becauuuuse, I think you should do it with me." you blink at him innocently before going on to explain the rules and seeing his eyes widen 😌

"So, what you're saying is... If neither of us back out, we kiss?"

WAIT WHAT

You actually expected him to turn you down immediately and chew you out for even making the suggestion since you're just friends but this certainly took a turn for the better

"Precisely." you smirked

"Just so you know, I'm not one to back out once I set my mind onto something." he smirked back at you, taking out a pocky stick from the box and placing it in front of your mouth for you to bite onto

the stick slowly begins to get smaller as your lips inch closer to his and you grip the couch you're currently sat on nervously

You take another bite and suddenly feel his lips on yours🤭

SUCCESS! SUCCESS! SUCCE-

"Oh? This is an interesting flavour~"

wait... you recognise that voice😨

"ROOK?!" the two of you separated and yelled at the same time, then turned your heads to see Rook casually enjoying your Pocky beside you

"Did you both enjoy the flavour as well?" Rook smiled innocently at you, taking out another one from the box

Vil pinched the bridge of his nose, mumbling something under his breath while you just sat there in shock🧍🏻

☾⋆⁺₊ Idia Shroud + Sakura Pocky

being the candy enjoyer that he is, he would never turn down free pocky (especially not his favourite... which speaking of, how did you know that one is his favourite?)

(ortho supplied you with that information)

however, his smile dropped when you started talking about the challenge all of a sudden

and he became all red instead🤭

"You got all that?" you asked, waving the pocky stick in front of his face with an innocent smile

"D-Do I- Do I...."

babe, he cannot form a sentence right now, much less process anything you just told him. you cannot POSSIBLY expect him to give you a clear answer right now🙄

"Oh, do you not wanna do it? That's fine." you get up, ready to leave (you're doing this on purpose, manipulation is key😈)

but no, seriously, you weren't going to make him do anything he was uncomfortable with, and you kinda expected a reaction like this anyways😭

"N-No, No, I want to..." he grabs onto your sleeve awkwardly, literally shaking from embarrasment

you're actually kinda worried, will he even survive till the whole kiss part?

No time like the present to find out, you suppose

you place the pocky in your mouth, waiting for him to bite into the other end. he does and immediately screws his eyes shut, WAAAY too embarrased to look at you

the distance between the two of you slowly closes but when there's just a bit of the pocky stick left he lets go and immediately runs away, hair slightly red at the ends😫

"Oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god...." he whispers to himself over and over, thinking about how he almost kissed you just now

atleast he got to eat his favourite flavour...????

"Did it fail?" Ortho came out of his hiding spot and you nodded, pouting slighly☹️

"That's plan G crossed off the list. You wrote down '7 minutes in heaven' for plan H. Though I do not know what that is, I will assist you in any way I can."