#Isla: feed

[thejadeprincesss]

im pretty sure my ac is broken

[imkento]

I’m not good at taking photos for social media so I hope this suffices.

tagged: @twislajade.

[bandcampsnoop]

3/10/25.

I'd never heard of Monoshock before even though S-S Records (a label I've been familiar with for years) released "Runnin' Ape Like From The Backwards Superman" on CD back in 2004. Cardinal Fuzz and Feeding Tube reissued this on vinyl back in 2020 and thanks to the "surprise me" function on Bandcamp, I learned about it.

Holy crap. This is intense rock. Think The Stooges, Monotonix, Mudhoney, The Fluid (and any number of Sub Pop bands from late 1980s to early 1990s), Condofucks, Eleventh Dream Day, and apparently Comets on Fire (I've never listened...to be remedied soon).

Monoshock first formed in Isla Vista (the college town near UC Santa Barbara) and then relocated to Oakland. I'm guessing they smoked some weed (listen to "Terminal Rockus"). But mostly, they rocked...so hard. I can't imagine how cool and dangerous one of their shows must have been. They broke up in 1995.

If this is sold out on Feeding Tube, be sure to check Discogs.

[renegadetoma]

My mind is not in the gutter! I can take killua for walks on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. Now scoot over you’re hogging the whole dang bed 🥺

You’re gonna have to get a bigger one to fit me and these dogs.

- @twislajade

They have a dog bed, you’re the one that insists on letting them sleep with us… but fine, we’ll go mattress shopping tomorrow- find one big enough for the whole family.

[todaysbird]

the juan fernández firecrown is a critically endangered hummingbird endemic only to isla róbinson crusoe, one of three islands on the juan fernández archipelago. males and females are very distinct from each other; males are a bright cinnamon-orange, while females have a bluish-green upperside and white underside. like other hummingbirds, they primarily feed on nectar from native plants, although they also feed on introduced species like eucalyptus. sadly, destruction of native trees is believed to be behind the declining population of this species.

[islamgzacc4]

وصلوا صوتي للعالم | Help Me Be Heard

Available in: العربية - English - Español

(speak another language? contact me)

My name is Islam. I’m 27 years old and live in Khan Younis, Gaza, with my family. I studied physical therapy, and I once had dreams of helping people, building a future, and living with dignity. But war took it all away. For the past two years, the bombing hasn’t stopped. We lost our home, our memories, and people we loved. My mother was diagnosed with cancer because of the genocide we’re living in, and there’s no treatment here. We now live in a tent, with no income, no electricity, no clean water, no food. The borders are shut, prices are sky-high, and aid isn’t reaching us. We’re surviving on hope, and even that is running thin. I’m sharing this with the world because maybe someone will hear me. Maybe someone will care. One share, one donation, one act of kindness from you could feed us, could shelter us, could keep us alive. This is not just a story. This is real. If you have a heart, please don’t scroll past this.

If you can translate this post into another language, please message me, I'll add your translation and thank you.

If you can make a short video about me in your language, send it to me. I’ll share it and mention your name.

يستطيع أي شخص في العالم في أن يوصل صوتي للعالم ويتمكنوا من مساعدتي !!

أنا إسلام عمري 27 عام  أعيش مع عائلتي في غزة  بالتحديد في خانيونس أنهيت دارستي الجامعية ك أخصائي علاج طبيعي كان لدي تطلعات وأحلام ومستقبل مثل أي شخص في العالم لكنها مسحت تماما ولم يبقى لنا شيء ، منذ سنتين والحرب لم تتوقف فقدنا بيتنا وذكرياتنا وبعض أحبابنا ، أُصيبت والدتي بالسرطان بسبب هذه الحرب ولا يتوفر العلاج داخل غزة لا يوجد دخل لنا إنني أعتمد عليكم وبمساعدتكم في دخلنا ، نعيش في خيمة لا تتوفر فيها أدنى مقومات الحياة ، المعابر مغلقة الطعام باهظ الثمن المساعدات لا تصلنا إلى هذه اللحظة

بضغطة زر واحدة منك قد تطعمنا ، قد تأوينا ،  قد تجعلنا نعيش !! هذا نداء لكل من يملك قلب

Me llamo Islam, tengo 27 años, y vivo en Khan Younis, Gaza, con mi familia. Estudié la fisioterapia, y una vez tenía sueños con ayudar a otras personas, construir un futuro, y vivir con dignidad. Pero la guerra me lo robó todo. Desde hace dos años, el bombardeo no ha parado. Perdimos nuestra casa, nuestros recuerdos, y las personas a que amamos. Mi madre fue diagnosticada con el cáncer por el genocidio en que vivimos, y no hay ningún tratamiento aquí. Ahora nosotros vivimos en una tienda de campaña, sin ingresos, sin electricidad, sin agua potable, y sin comida. Las fronteras están cerradas, los precios son altísimos, y la ayuda humanitaria no nos llega. Sobrevivimos solo con la esperanza, y ya la esperanza se agota. Estoy compartiendo este con el mundo porque quizás alguien me oiga. Quizás alguien nos importe. Un compartir, una donación, un acto de amabilidad podría darnos comida y refugio. Tú podrías mantenernos vivos. Esta no es sola una historia. Es la vida real. Si tienes corazón, por favor no te desplaces por este mensaje.

Thank @hiddencreature666 for the translation

[p1astr81]

sleep deprived - op81

an: I’m still thinking about girldad!oscar so here’s another little blurb part 1

in which: mom!reader gets to a point of dangerous exhaustion, worrying Oscar.

pairing: dad!oscar piastri x mom!reader

warnings: pet names (baby, honey), if there’s any others lmk!

‧‧₊˚ ⋅* ۶ৎ ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅

You stumbled into the kitchen, and Oscar noticed almost instantly that you weren’t okay. He called your name softly but received no answer.

He noted the curve of your arm, as if your daughter, isla, was resting in your arms. But she was rolling around on her play pad right next to Oscar. Worry overtook every one of Oscar’s thoughts.

He watched with concerned eyes as you opened the fridge and pulled out a nearly empty baby bottle. He calculated his next moves carefully, not wanting to make you upset. You tilted the bottle as if to feed the invisible baby.

Oscar called your name again and received a tired him in response. “Baby I think you need to rest.” He suggested.

You shook your head, moving to sit on the couch near him. “Isla needs me.” You mumbled the explanation. It was hardly even coherent.

He glanced at Isla to make sure she was distracted enough before leaving her side. He sat next to you, taking the bottle from your hands. You whined, “No, Isla-“ “Isla’s on the floor.” He pointed out with a sigh. You frowned, and suddenly the baby in your arms was no longer there.

“C’mon, let’s get you to bed.” Oscar stood, taking your hand with him but you refused to budge. “But she needs me.” Your gaze was on your daughter who was currently chewing on a silicon ring used for teething.

“It’s alright. I’ll look after her.” He tugged on your hand again, but you remained where you sat.

Oscar sighed, and despite your protests, he hoisted you into his arms. “Hey, put me down!” Your demands fell onto deaf ears. You tried to squirm but he only held you tighter.

He kicked your bedroom door open and laid you carefully on the bed. When you tried to get up, he pushed you right back down. “If I have to hold you down until you go to sleep, I will.” He was stern with it, pointing a threatening finger at you.

You finally huffed, settling into the sheets. “Fine. Just wake me up in an hour.” You grumble.

Safe to say, Oscar did not wake up up in an hour. He treaded around the house on his tip toes, wincing when a floorboard would creek.

You were approaching hour two when isla started to cry. She’d just ate, so Oscar assumed it was a teething issue. He offered her the teething toys but she rejected all of them after just a couple of bites. So he sacrificed his finger for isla to chew on, and thankfully she didn’t reject that one. He cautiously peeked his head into your bedroom, and silently cheered when he saw that you were still fast asleep.

It wasn’t until sixteen hours later that you woke up.

The room was dark, the blackout curtains drawn closed. The smell of bacon and pancakes wafted through the air in your room. “Breakfast for dinner?” You asked to the empty space before turning to the clock. What should’ve been 17:30 was actually 8:51.

“Oscar!” You yelled, storming out of the room to confront him. You stood at the kitchen island next to isla in her high chair, glaring holes into the back of Oscar’s head.

He turned and smiled at you sweetly. He carried a plate of fluffy pancakes and bacon over to you, placing it right in front of you. He chose to ignore your sharp gaze. “Morning, honey.” He greeted, placing a kiss on your temple.

“Don’t ‘morning honey’ me! Why didn’t you wake me up?” You demanded of him while isla babbled beside you and tossed a piece of bacon at you. “Thanks, love.” You replied sarcastically, placing the strip back on her plate.

Oscar just smiled, unfazed by your reaction. “You needed the sleep.”

“I didn’t-“

“You slept for sixteen hours. You didn’t even wake up when isla was crying. You were too exhausted to even admit it, and you were hallucinating.” He stated, gentle and cautious. The worry in his voice, and the concern on his face made you frown. “I love you, and I love how independent you want to be, but you’re not alone in this. You’re taking on more responsibilities than you need to and you’re not looking after yourself.” Oscar’s hands found your waist. He held onto you with a light grip. “And it’s killing me with worry.” He confessed.

“I’m sorry.” You muttered, not meeting his eyes.

His hands moved from your waist to cup your cheeks. He lifted your head, forcing you to look him in the eyes. He closed the gap between you, leaving a soft peck on your lips. “It’s okay. Just promise me you’ll give yourself a break when you need it.”

You bit the inside of your cheek before nodding. He smiled and kissed you again, breaking apart to laugh when Isla started screeching happily.

[angel06babysworld]

nhl!rafe x prettygirl!reader

All American Morning

The morning started before the sun even broke the sky.

The baby monitor let out a soft, rhythmic static—then a sleepy whimper. Isla was up. Again.

Rafe groaned quietly, rolling over. “I got it.”

She didn’t argue. Four years of marriage had taught her that Rafe Cameron in dad-mode was a machine. He could be half-dead from an away game in Calgary and still get up for a 3 a.m. feeding like he was born for it. Which, of course, he claimed he was.

She heard the faint creak of the nursery door, then the gentle hush of Rafe’s voice, deep and low, as he lifted Isla into his arms. It was always like that—soft in ways the rest of the world never got to see.

Pretty girl, pretty life.

She stretched, turning her face into the pillow with a smile, and listened to the baby settle.

Twenty minutes later, the sun finally broke through the curtains, and Rafe returned with Isla against his bare chest, one big hand splayed protectively across her tiny back.

“She’s back out,” he murmured.

“Of course she is.” She shifted to sit up, her sleep shirt sliding off one shoulder. “You’re her favorite person.”

“I better be. You think she knows I drop gloves for a living?” he smirked, laying the baby gently in her bassinet next to their bed.

“She thinks you’re a squishy bear who smells like cedar and warm milk.”

He came back to the bed and climbed in behind her, looping an arm around her waist. “So do you.”

She laughed into his chest.

It didn’t last long. The pitter-patter of feet down the hallway gave them a ten-second warning before Jamie launched himself into the room, all messy curls and boy energy.

“Dad! You forgot pancake morning!”

Rafe sat up, rubbing his face. “You wake up every day like it’s Game 7.”

Jamie grinned, victorious.

Pretty girl married the hot jock. Had the strong son and the sweet baby girl. But her favorite mornings were the ones where nothing glittered—just sunlit floors and sleepy kisses, the clatter of spatulas and Rafe in sweats with his hair sticking up.

They migrated downstairs, the baby in her arms and Jamie dragging his blankie behind him like a cape. Rafe beat her to the stove, flipping pancakes like a pro, while she moved through the kitchen barefoot, popping Isla’s pacifier back in her mouth.

Jamie was climbing onto the counter stool, legs too short to really make it up, but Rafe caught him with one hand, already pouring syrup with the other. “Protein first,” he warned.

“Daaaad,” Jamie whined.

Rafe gave him the look, then passed him a half-pancake with peanut butter spread across the top. “Fuel for future captains.”

From her seat at the island, she looked around: a mess of bottles, hockey gear in the mudroom, baby toys under the table. Rafe humming to himself, Isla in her lap, and Jamie loudly declaring he was going to be “the first kid to play in the NHL and also be a dinosaur.”

It wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t always pretty. But it was perfect.

And as Rafe slid a fresh cup of coffee into her hands—kisses her shoulder as he passed—she realized that love didn’t always live in roses or grand gestures.

Sometimes it lived in sleepy foreheads pressed to hers, pancakes on Thursdays, and the way Rafe still looked at her like they were 17 and he’d just won the game and the girl.

tags: @amelialovesrafe @alyisdead

[sillyswriting]

: ̗̀➛ forsaken

     ㅤ  ₊✩ˎˊ˗ highlander johnny 'soap' mactavish x princess reader

05 : an neach-brathaidh

cw : angst, smut, self-harm in the name of religion, blasphemy, chubby reader, historical facts and inaccuracies, (johnny wearing kilts, yes, it's a warning of its own) words : 6.7k

     ㅤ  collection - prev ⋆ next

bold - french italic - gaelic

Isla.

Johnny’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, his nails biting into his palms as the truth settled like a poison in his veins. The betrayal cut deeper than any blade ever could. His sister—the girl he had once sworn to protect—had been feeding the enemy their secrets, selling them piece by piece. 

And for what? Love? Empty promises from a man who saw her as nothing more than a means to an end?

She had met an English soldier months ago, just before Johnny brought you back with him. He had charmed her, filled her head with empty promises, and disgraced her. He had made her love him. And in return, she had given him everything.

For months, she had been feeding him—whispering about the clan, their defenses, their people. About you. Mere pillow talk for her, but for her traitorous lover, it had been everything he needed.

When you hadn’t returned from the pond, whispers of a Sassenach attack had slithered through the castle like a sickness. The English had been pressing further into their lands ever since their new king had been crowned. And now, your disappearance? It had been the only logical explanation.

Then, deep into the night, Isla had come crawling, tears streaming down her face as she entered her father's chambers. She had confessed everything. All of it.

Her father had comforted her, though his heart ached with the weight of her betrayal. She was still his blood, his child. And she had been deceived. Played like a pawn in a game far beyond her understanding.

Through choked sobs, she had recounted the lies her lover had spun—how he had claimed to be a spy for the old king, how he had sworn to despise the English as much as she and her clan did. 

How he had promised to marry her, to give her the family she had always dreamed of. And she had believed him.

As a chief, he was furious—anger boiling in him at the realization that a traitor had been living within his walls. 

But as a father, all he felt was guilt and tenderness. Guilt for never seeing the signs, for missing the late-night disappearances, the way his daughter had been sneaking away to meet her lover. And tenderness, because despite it all, she was still his Isla. His little girl. The same dreamer she had always been, the hopeless romantic who once begged her mother to tell her every detail of her marriage, clinging to the idea of love like it was the very air she breathed.

Johnny had noticed his sister’s odd behavior, but he had assumed she was seeing one of the men from the village—not their enemy. It wasn’t hidden; Scotland, and especially the Highlands, had been at war with England for centuries. Didn't she know better? 

How could she have been so naïve?

Johnny was boiling. For the first time in his life, he didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t treat Isla like just another traitor—she was his blood, his sister. But at the same time, he knew the damage had already been done. The English would be preparing their next move, ready to tear apart years of fragile peace just to get their hands on the princess. 

Everything was closing in on him—his thoughts, the walls, the weight of it all pressing down until he could barely breathe. His pulse pounded in his ears, his chest tightened, and his mind felt like it was spiraling out of control. He needed air. He needed space. He needed to think.

With a sudden rush, he pushed back from the table, the sharp crash of his chair hitting the floor echoing through the chamber. Without a word, he turned on his heel, his only thought to get away. Outside. Somewhere he could breathe. Somewhere he could be alone.

He knew he wouldn’t be allowed beyond the castle grounds, not with tensions this high. But that didn’t matter. He knew these walls better than anyone—better than any secrets Isla could have whispered to her lover.

Sighing, Fionn sank heavily into his seat, the weight of it all pressing down on him. His family was unraveling before his eyes, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. There had been so many chances to prevent this, so many moments where he could have seen the truth—but now it was too late.

His little Isla was heartbroken, drowning in guilt. His Johnny was lost to rage, consumed by dark thoughts that Fionn feared he wouldn’t be able to pull him back from.

Left alone in the room with the French knight, Fionn felt the urge to explain. The weight of the truth was too much to carry alone, and he knew the man sitting across from him deserved to understand.

He knew you had been getting better at Gaelic, but your knight had yet to grasp it. So, in low, measured tones, Fionn told him everything.

When he was done, the same look of pity he had worn when Isla, tear-streaked and broken, had confessed everything now lingered in John's eyes. Though, the knight had no children of his own, not truly—he understood. The impossible choices, the war between duty and love, between justice and family.

Fionn exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. "What would ye dae, John?" he asked, voice hoarse with exhaustion.

Ser John didn’t answer right away. Perhaps because there was no good answer. He could only imagine the weight of such a betrayal—a betrayal in the name of love. Truth was, nothing could change what had already been done.

Nothing but prepare.

"Prepare for war, Fionn," Ser John said with a weary sigh, already exhausted by the battle that had yet to begin. "There is nothing else to do."

Looking at the knight, the old Scot hesitated. An attack didn’t necessarily mean the English would come storming into the village. Of course, this hadn’t been a random strike—they had been targeted—but would the enemy truly dare to challenge one of the most respected clans in the Highlands?

"If they’re after the princess to settle peace, they won’t stop at a… eh, how do you say… a random attack," Ser John muttered, his French accent thickening as he searched for the right words.

Fionn understood well enough. The enemy would not stop until they had what they came for. War was coming sooner than he had expected—a war that might have been avoided. But he had sworn to protect you and your knight, and so had his men. Your battles were now theirs as well. And Fionn MacTavish was not a man to run from duty.

It was strange how everything had come to this. They had all heard whispers of the gruesome wedding that had taken place in the royal chapel, deep in the capital. When Fionn learned of the princess’s age, he couldn't help but imagine one of his own daughters being thrown to the wolves like that—sacrificed in the name of the so-called greater good.

Rumors had spread like wildfire after her disappearance. Some claimed she had been taken as the new king’s whore, others that she had drowned trying to flee back to France. Some said she had succeeded in her escape, while others whispered that she was seeking refuge in the north.

That had stirred something deep within Fionn—a need to protect, not just as a chief, but as a father. An instinct nestled so deep inside him that when whispers of a foreigner asking questions about the Highlands reached his ears, he had sent Johnny.

Johnny was his best at everything—his finest soldier, his most trusted counselor, an unmatched tracker and hunter. Everything Fionn had taught him, he had mastered to perfection, making him the ideal heir. There was never a moment of doubt in his mind when it came to his son. Beyond skill, Johnny had been raised with compassion, humility, wisdom, and kindness. A true leader.

And he had found you.

Something in Fionn had felt like satisfaction—perhaps even pride—when he saw you bloom here. The wary, spoiled princess who had arrived in his lands had transformed into a strong, outspoken woman. It had taken time, of course. 

At first, you had clung to your old ways, to the rigid customs of the court, to the belief that you were fragile, untouchable, above the world that surrounded you. But the Highlands had a way of shaping people, of stripping away pretense and revealing one’s true self. And in time, you had embraced it.

He had watched the change unfold with quiet approval. He saw it in the way you moved now, no longer uncertain but with confidence. In the way you spoke, no longer hesitant but with conviction. You had found your place among his people—not as a helpless outsider, but as one of them.

And yet, that was not the only transformation he had witnessed.

Fionn had also seen the way his son watched you, the way Johnny’s gaze lingered when he thought no one was looking. It was not the fleeting glances of a man drawn by mere attraction—it was something deeper, something he had never seen in his son before. A quiet longing, an unspoken devotion. It was in the way Johnny listened to you, how he positioned himself instinctively at your side, how his entire body tensed when danger so much as brushed against your shadow.

Fionn knew what that kind of look meant. He had worn it himself, once.

You had been unresponsive to Johnny’s behavior, always shutting down when he teased, always retreating when he stepped too close. Fionn had watched it all with quiet amusement, the way his son’s expression would twist into a barely concealed pout whenever you pushed him away. It was a sight that made the old chief chuckle to himself—nothing he hadn’t lived through before.

His own wife had been hard work. Stubborn as the sea and just as unpredictable. She had resisted him at every turn, challenging him in ways no one else ever dared. But God, how he had loved her for it. How he had cherished every moment, even the difficult ones. Love built in struggle was the kind that endured.

And so, Fionn knew—one day, Johnny would look back on these moments with a smile. One day, he would understand that the chase was never in vain, that every step, every rejection, every time you slipped just out of his grasp had only led him closer to something worth fighting for.

He knew because he could see it in your eyes—the flicker of attraction, the way your resolve wavered when Johnny was near. And every time you let yourself soften, even for just a moment, your hand would fly to the cross around your neck, clutching it like a lifeline. A silent plea, a reminder of the vows you had sworn, of the watchful eyes you believed never strayed from you.

Fionn had lost his faith long ago. Some would say he had never truly believed at all. He had seen too much, suffered too much to put his trust in an unseen God. When his wife passed, he had watched his own son teeter on the edge of madness, cursing the heavens with every breath. And now, seeing you—so young, so full of fire, yet shackled by devotion—saddened him.

You were clinging to something intangible, something that had given you rules but no freedom. There was so much of life still waiting for you, so much to feel, to experience. And yet, you held yourself back, afraid to reach for the very things that made life worth living.

Secretly, he had hoped the Highlands would change that. Making you understand there was more to life than a faithful devotion. So much freeing yourself from the shackles of religion could give you. 

Old habits died hard. 

It was deep into the night when Johnny made his way back to the castle, slipping through the hidden passages cloaked in darkness. He had done what needed to be done—scouted the enemy, seen with his own eyes the English battalions assembling just kilometers away, their weapons glinting under the moonlight. War was no longer a possibility; it was a certainty.

Upon his return, he had wasted no time in alerting the head of the army, ensuring the men were prepared, weapons sharpened, defenses reinforced. Every step had been calculated, every command given with precision.

Now, exhaustion clung to him like a second skin, his body screaming for rest even as his mind refused to quiet. Sleep would not come easy—not until the enemy was defeated. Or until his own life was taken.

As he made his way toward his chambers, something caught his eye. The chapel gates, left slightly ajar. The faint glow of candlelight flickered within, casting long, trembling shadows against the stone walls.

He hesitated.

Who would be praying at this hour? It was late—too late. He had made certain of that, ensuring he would not have to face anyone tonight.

Yet, drawn by something he could not name, Johnny stepped closer, his movements careful, silent. And as he peered inside, his breath caught.

You.

Here you were, on your knees once again, in front of the small and modest altar.

"Jesus, I acknowledge my weakness and inability to change my wounded and sinful heart without full and complete surrender of my whole self to You. Jesus, I know my heart is weak, and so I ask that You fill me with the deep faith that each time I turn to You to repent of my sins, You will be there with Your loving hands to help me up and with Your strong arms to carry me when I cannot walk." You whispered into the quiet night.

The candlelight flickered against the stone walls, casting long, wavering shadows over your form. Your head was bowed, hands clasped tightly together, lips moving in whispered prayers. Johnny lingered at the threshold, watching.

You looked so small like this, so fragile. It stirred something deep in his chest—something he couldn’t quite name. Still in your nightdress, you must have been waiting for the castle to fall into silence. It would have, if it hadn't been for Johnny. 

He should have walked away. Should have left you to your prayers, to your whispered conversations with a God he wasn’t sure even listened. But he couldn’t.

As he approached quietly, Johnny saw the silent tears tracing down your cheeks. It pained him to witness, knowing you were in such despair, all because of your faith—an unknown God who demanded so much from you, even to the point of tormenting your spirit. The weight of it was visible, so much so that Johnny could make out specks of blood on your nightdress—silent traces of a self-inflicted act meant to hurt, to punish yourself.

Heathens, you'd called them, savages even, but here you were, bound by your own convictions, trapped in archaic rituals that only seemed to deepen your suffering. It angered Johnny, seeing you like this—imagining you in your chambers, alone, punishing yourself. It tore at him to think of you trying to carry this burden, unable to find peace even in the quiet of your own soul.

As he shook his head, turning around, the wooden floor creaked beneath his boots. You stiffened, your hands tightening around the cross at your neck. Slowly, you turned, eyes widening when you saw him.

Neither of you spoke at first.

“I dinnae mean to intrude,” Johnny finally said, voice quieter than usual, rough with exhaustion.

With tears still welling in your eyes, you offered him a weak smile. He looked utterly exhausted, but you figured you couldn’t look any better. The night before had been a restless one, and the few hours of sleep you managed to get in your chambers had been plagued by nightmares. So much so that you had pretended to be asleep, just so Johnny's sisters would leave you to your own thoughts.

Repentance, you had been taught, came through pain. You needed to be alone, just you and your God. Once the act was done, the need to seek solace in God's house had become overwhelming. And so here you were, in the dead of night, seeking comfort where you could find it.

Living with the clan, you had come to understand that they were not devout Catholics. Very few used the royal chapel, and even fewer attended the village church. They were Catholics only in name, not in practice. When you had asked around, most of them had told you they had seen too much suffering, too much horror, to put their lives in the hands of a God they felt had abandoned them. 

You figured Johnny must have been the same. The chains around his neck didn’t bear a cross, but a ring and a small hammer—an emblem of some ancient cult of the heathens, rather than a Christian symbol. You had seen it before, glinting in the firelight during your time in the cave, its unfamiliar design striking you as something old, something far removed from the faith you knew.

You felt as though God was playing tricks on you. The weight of all your sins, the very essence of your doubts, seemed to manifest before your eyes. It was cruel, you thought—unfair, even. You hadn’t done anything to deserve such temptation. Your heart ached with confusion, questioning why you, of all people, were being tested in this way.

"It's nothing, I was done anyway," you said, sniffling a little, trying to brush off the weight of the moment. But even as the words left your lips, you could feel the tension in the air, the unspoken truth that lingered between you. You weren't done, not really—not with the thoughts that haunted you, not with the emotions you couldn't quite shake off.

The strange, overwhelming feeling of shame settled over you the moment you saw Johnny, like a child caught in the act of doing something they shouldn't.

You tried to mask it, wishing him a merry night as you moved past him to head for the exit. But as your body brushed against his, Johnny's hand gently halted your progress. Trapped between the bench and his presence, the warmth of his body pressed into yours, pulling you back to that moment in the cave.

You hadn’t bothered putting on anything more than your white nightdress, assuming you’d encounter no one in the dead of night. Yet now, standing before Johnny in the soft light, you realized how thin the fabric was—almost sheer.

"Why, mo ghràdh?" Johnny's voice was soft but filled with a raw, unspoken question as his hand brushed lightly over your wrist, the one he had stopped.

Confusion clouded your face, your eyebrows furrowing as your eyes narrowed, trying to make sense of the moment.

With an almost hesitant tenderness, Johnny’s fingers gently tugged at the edge of your nightgown, lowering it just enough to expose the top of your back. The sight of the marks there, the cruel, jagged cuts, sent a chill through the air.

Shame washed over you again, more intense this time. You knew Johnny wouldn’t understand—how could he? You had had a hard time understanding it yourself, growing up. But somehow, you had found meaning in it. A twisted way of proving to God how much you believed, how faithful you were. 

Yet, in return, your faithfulness had led to nothing but suffering, shame and pain, a relentless cycle that seemed only to deepen with each passing day. You wanted to explain, to make him see, but the words stuck in your throat. How could you explain something so personal, so painfully wrong?

You had heard about this before—crisis of faith. You had denied it for months, telling yourself it was just a phase, a test, a trial that would pass. But now, standing next to Johnny, feeling his presence close in the dimly lit chapel, you couldn’t deny it anymore. Faith was slipping away from you, like sand through your fingers. You clung to it desperately, holding on to whatever remnants you could, afraid to let go, even though you weren’t sure what it meant to hold on to something that felt so distant.

With the words still caught in your throat, tears silently traced their way down your cheeks. No sound escaped your lips, only the weight of your own battles taking their toll. Slowly, gently, Johnny pulled you toward him, guiding your head to his chest. Comfort—that was what you needed, and he was good at giving it. His steady presence surrounded you, offering a quiet reprieve from the storm raging inside. In that moment, the chaos of your thoughts softened, if only for a brief second. 

Why would something so forbidden feel so warm? Why, despite it all, did you long for it day and night? Why would God send you battle after battle when all you had done was serve Him faithfully?

As the weight of your sorrow overwhelmed you, you crumbled into Johnny's embrace, your legs giving way as you both sank to the ground.

Johnny didn’t complain. He didn’t say anything at all. He simply held you, as you needed, his arms strong and unyielding. He became the protector you hadn’t known you needed. It was in his nature, ingrained in him just as deeply as his own blood—like a second instinct. He was there, unwavering, in the quiet silence of the night.

It was too much. Everything came crashing down at once—the glances, the smirks, the light touches, the pond, the running, the cave, the warmth, the pleasure.

All of it.

It had been forbidden. And yet, the moment you had tasted it, the moment you had felt something real, something that wasn’t whispered warnings and empty teachings, you realized how much you had been fed lies all these years.

You crumbled beneath the weight of it.

Tears wouldn’t stop falling, your body shaking with each quiet sob, each hiccup wracking through you. And Johnny—he held you through it, his own body moving with yours, absorbing your trembling grief as if he could shoulder some of it for you. He said nothing. There was nothing to say.

But he was there. And for the first time, that felt like enough.  

Like your mother’s warm embrace. Like the soft smiles of your nieces and nephews. Like the smell of wet grass after a storm. Like home.

And yet, it wasn’t home—not in the way it should have been. Home was supposed to be safe, familiar, unquestionable. But this? This was dangerous, unknown, a line you weren’t supposed to cross.

Still, wrapped in Johnny’s arms, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

For the first time in so long, you weren’t drowning.

You were free. 

Pressed against him, you felt warmth—not just against your skin, but seeping into your very bones, melting something deep within you. It was unlike anything you'd ever known, a comfort so raw and real it almost hurt. Like two souls merging to form one. 

Johnny smelled of the earth—wet grass after a storm, firewood still smoldering, a trace of sweat, and something else, something wholly him. It was grounding, steadying. Your nose brushed the hollow of his neck, so close to his bare skin, and for a moment, you simply breathed him in.

Slowly, you pulled back from the warmth of his neck, your breath unsteady as you met his gaze. He hadn’t looked away—not once. His eyes, softer than you had ever seen them, held something unspoken, something that sent a shiver down your spine.

It wasn’t just desire. It wasn’t just the closeness of your bodies in the dim candlelight.

It was deeper than that—something raw, something real.

Like he felt it too. Like the warmth that had settled deep in your bones was not yours alone but echoed in him just the same.

Your gaze flickered to his lips, drawn by something beyond reason, beyond faith—something primal and undeniable.

For months, you had avoided him. Avoided his teasing smirks, his lingering glances, the way his presence seemed to take up too much space in your mind. You had feared divine wrath, feared punishment for even the thought of wanting him.

And yet, what had your devotion brought you? Pain. Doubt. Loneliness. Betrayals. 

If this was a sin, then so be it. You had suffered enough. And this—this felt right. Like it was always meant to be.

Hesitant, you inched closer. He stiffened slightly, the muscles in his jaw tightening, and doubt gripped you. Did he not want this? Had you misread him?

Your breath hitched, ready to pull away—but then, his hand slid gently behind your head, fingers threading through your hair, guiding you forward.

A silent answer. A quiet agreement.

And then, he closed the distance.

This was your first kiss.

You had never felt a man’s lips on yours before. You had dreamed of it, of course—imagined what it might be like, in the dead of night, when your thoughts wandered where they shouldn’t. But this was nothing like you had pictured.

It was better. So much better.

His lips were soft against yours, moving with an unspoken tenderness, guiding rather than taking. There was no urgency, no hunger—only patience, only warmth. A silent promise that he would take only what you were willing to give.

And so, you let him.

Your lips followed his lead, uncertain at first, but learning, memorizing the way he moved. The way he breathed. The way he tasted—like firewood and something untamed, something wild and free. Something you wanted more of.

Just then, your body moved on its own, drawn to him like the tide to the shore.

The need to be closer, to feel more, overpowered any lingering thoughts of decency. Any fears. Any hesitation.

You shifted, climbing onto his lap, your knees settling on either side of him. His hands hesitated for the briefest moment—just long enough to make your heart pound harder—before finding purchase on your waist, steadying you against him.

Then, he let out a sound—low, deep, somewhere between a groan and a moan.

It was the best thing you had ever heard.

A shiver ran through you, heat pooling in places you had never acknowledged before. You had never felt anything like this—never been this close to someone, never known how intoxicating it could be to have someone react to your touch, to your presence.

Your movement had been instinctive, a flicker of insecurity creeping in, whispering doubts into your mind.

Were you too heavy? Were you crushing him? Hurting him?

Panic rose in your chest, and you shifted, pushing yourself up slightly, your knees pressing into the cold, unforgiving stone of the chapel floor. The rough surface scraped against your skin, but you barely registered the sting.

"Sorry," you whispered, the word barely escaping your lips before Johnny’s hands tightened around your waist, pulling you back down onto his lap with a force that stole your breath.

His touch was almost desperate, his grip firm yet reverent, like he couldn’t bear even a second of separation. Like letting you go was simply not an option.

The way he looked at you now—his breath ragged, his pupils blown wide, his expression caught between restraint and raw, unfiltered need—made the last of your doubts melt away.

You had spent so long resisting. So long convincing yourself that this was wrong. That this was forbidden. But how could something feel so right and still be a sin? You weren’t sure anymore. All you knew was that you had never felt this wanted. Never felt this needed.

And, God help you, you wanted him just as much.

When he kissed you again, it was raw—desperate. Every ounce of restraint he had clung to was gone, cast away like autumn leaves in the wind. He finally had you in his arms, and he would savor it for as long as fate allowed.

He needed you to feel it—to understand that this wasn’t wrong, that it never had been. That it was something pure, something true, before pious thoughts slithered back into your mind and stole you away from him again.

With a slow, deliberate shift of his hips, Johnny adjusted his position, lifting you slightly before settling you back down onto his lap. The feeling of your weight pressing against him was intoxicating. If he had still believed in God, he would have thanked Him for this miracle.

His lips moved against yours with practiced ease, but his tongue hesitated—tentative, testing. Seeking permission. And when you parted your lips just slightly, when you allowed him deeper, his hands moved on their own.

Fingers gripping your waist, he pulled you against him—closer, impossibly closer—until you rocked against him. The friction, the heat between you, sent a shudder through his body, and then—

A sound. Soft, breathless, unsure. A timid little moan that left your lips before you could stop it.

It was all he needed. He did it again. And again.

Pushing your boundaries.

He was deliberate, controlled—but beneath it, something wild lurked. Primal. Untamed. Like a beast that had been shackled for too long and had finally, finally been set free.

You had been bound by chains your entire life, and Johnny wanted you to know—wanted you to feel—that this was how it was supposed to be. This was life. This was living.

As gently as his primal nature would allow, he pushed your nightgown higher, uncovering your thighs. They were soft, full, and warm, and his hands began to caress them with increasing tenderness. His mouth never ceased its attention on you, and he could feel how you had surrendered, how you were no longer resisting.

He wasn’t going to take you in a chapel—not when he assumed it would be your first time—but he certainly could mock God a little. Show Him how he’d corrupted a little angel like you.

As his kisses grew lighter, allowing you to feel the shift of his touch, his fingers began to trace higher, soft caresses gliding over your inner thigh. Your breath hitched at the sensation, your fingers tightening on his shoulder.

A single word from you, and he would stop. 

But you said nothing. Instead, your hips continued to move, almost guiding his hand where he longed to be. With soft, teasing caresses, Johnny's fingers brushed over your womanhood before venturing higher, exploring with reverence rather than haste. His hands, broad and warm, slid up until they rested just beneath the swell of your breasts, palms spanning the softness of your stomach.

If he noticed the curves, the lingering flesh, he gave no sign. No hesitation, no pause. Just steady, deliberate touch—like he didn’t just accept you, but worshipped you.

As gently as his hands explored you, his lips left yours, capturing the soft whine that escaped at their departure. Lowering his head, he pressed slow, lingering kisses to your cheek, then your jaw, trailing down the curve of your neck to your collarbone.

Sensing nothing but surrender in you, his hands moved with purpose, cupping your breasts, his fingers tracing over your peaked nipples in slow, reverent circles. The quiet gasp that slipped from your lips was a victory—proof that you were lost in the feeling of him, allowing yourself, at last, to indulge.

After a few moments, one of his hands left your breast, only briefly. His eyes met yours, then flickered down to the laces keeping your nightgown closed—a silent question.

Eagerly, you nodded, not wanting this moment to slip away.

The fabric loosened easily under his touch, and as it fell away, your bare skin was laid before him, soft and inviting. Your breath hitched as his gaze darkened, hunger and reverence intertwining in his expression. He didn’t hesitate. His lips found your breast, warm and insistent, while his other hand continued its slow, careful worship of the other.

The moment his mouth closed over your sensitive skin, a moan spilled from your lips, your head falling back in surrender. What a sight you must have been—perched in his lap, bathed in candlelight, unraveling beneath his touch.

His eyes drifted upward, settling on the heavy cross hanging around your neck. It gleamed in the dim candlelight, a stark reminder of the faith that had bound you, of the beliefs that had kept you from him for so long.

How ironic.

Here you were, half-undone in his lap, breathless and trembling under his touch, and yet that damned cross still rested against your skin, as if to watch and judge.

Johnny let out a low chuckle, the sound rough and edged with something wicked. His lips left your breast just long enough for him to grasp the chain between his fingers, lifting the cross slightly. He turned it in his grasp, letting the firelight catch on its polished surface.

"Still watching over you, is He?" Johnny murmured, his voice dripping with amusement, with defiance. His thumb brushed over the worn metal before he let it drop, the weight of it settling back against your skin. 

His lips found yours again, as if to prove his point. If your God was watching, then let Him watch. Let Him see how easily devotion could crumble in the face of something real, something tangible. Because no prayer had ever made you sound like this. No penance had ever made you tremble the way you did now. 

No amount of self-inflicted pain had ever made you feel like this—never sent shivers down your spine, never made you melt into something so warm, so alive.

Johnny’s fingers lingered over the open wounds on your back, not to hurt, but to feel—to understand. His touch was careful, almost reverent, but even then, your body flinched instinctively. Seeking comfort, you pressed forward, and in doing so, you felt it—something firm, something undeniable, pressing against your core.

A sharp gasp left your lips.

Johnny stilled beneath you, his grip tightening just slightly on your waist. His breathing was heavy, his restraint evident, but instead of taking, instead of demanding, he softened.

"Sorry, mo luaidh," he whispered, voice thick with something unreadable. He kissed your trembling lips, then lower, trailing to the tear that had slipped free from your eye. He caught it with his tongue, stealing away the evidence of your turmoil like it had never existed.

You barely registered his words, barely even noticed the way he had mocked your faith.

If faith there was still in you.

Tears slipped down your cheeks, but you weren’t sure what had caused them. Was it the lingering pain of your wounds, the shame of Johnny seeing you like this, or the sheer, overwhelming sensation coursing through your body? Maybe it was all of it at once, tangling together into something unrecognizable, something beyond your control.

Johnny saw them, of course. He always saw more than you wanted him to. His thumb brushed the wet tracks from your skin, his touch warm, grounding. There was no pity in his gaze, no cruelty—just something steady, something certain.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured, his breath ghosting over your lips. "And I will."

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

Words failed you, so instead, you shook your head and kissed him again, desperate, needing. A shiver from the cold ran down your spine, making you press against him once more. And again, that firm pressure between your legs sent a jolt of pleasure through your body, a sensation unlike anything you had ever known.

A moan escaped your lips, swallowed by Johnny’s mouth. You felt him smirk against you, his ever-present smugness seeping back in. He knew exactly what he was doing to you. Knew that your body was responding to him in ways that terrified and thrilled you all at once.

But you didn’t care anymore.

The fire inside you had been smothered for too long, buried under duty, under guilt, under rules written by men who had never felt this kind of hunger. You didn’t want to stop. You couldn’t.

So you rocked against him again—harder this time. And you didn’t stop.

You were so lost in your own pleasure that you barely noticed Johnny’s hand slipping back under your dress. This time, there was no hesitation. His fingers brushed against the damp fabric of your undergarments, feeling just how wet you were—how much you had been unraveling beneath his touch.

His other hand found its way back to your breasts, kneading, caressing, teasing with slow, deliberate pinches. Every touch, every movement, sent a new wave of heat coursing through you, drowning out any lingering thoughts of guilt or restraint.

With fervent kisses, he pressed against your womanhood, putting more pressure through your clothes. The gasp you let out was magical, something he would fight day and night to listen again and again. He'll never get tired of it. 

Pursuing your lips that had left his, his fingers breached your underdress, now pressing on your pelvic hair, his thumb rubbing slow circles on your bundles of nerves. 

Breaking away from the animalistic kiss he had imposed on you, your forehead rested on his shoulder. Johnny kissed your temples softly, his hands never ceasing their gentle assaults on your body. You were his temple, and he was your devoted worshipper. You were his God, and he was your ever-faithful soldier.

"See, m’eudail, this is the truth," Johnny began, his voice thick with desperation, as if each word was a breath he could barely catch. 

Something primal had taken hold of him long ago, a force deep inside him that he had no intention of resisting. It wasn’t just a desire—it was his very essence, his need. 

"This... this is what life is," he murmured, his gaze darkening. "This is pleasure, raw. It's not just a feeling; it's everything." His grip tightened, his presence overwhelming. "Ye feel it too, don’t you? Ye can’t deny it."

He punctuated his words with adding pressure to your clit and nipping at your neck, right where your cross had to move with your movement.

"I’ll take care of her now," Johnny whispered, his voice low, almost growling, as his gaze fixed on the cross hanging behind the altar. The weight of his words lingered in the air. "You can go." There was a finality in his tone, a quiet command. "She doesn’t need you anymore."

Without stopping his movements, he felt your body begin to tense, your pleasure building with each passing second. He knew what was coming, and there was no hesitation in him—he wasn’t going to stop it.

The soft breaths and moans you released by his ears were the most sinful sounds he had ever heard—nothing could compare. Your hands gripped his shoulder, almost painfully, but it was a pain he would gladly accept, without a second thought. A pain he would revel in.

Just as you were both in heaven, hell descended upon you in an instant.

The bell. The village bell was ringing—echoing through the night.

The Mactavish were under attack.

[oneiriad]

Murderbot crossover ficlet

Jurassic Park, for @robininthelabyrinth

According to the tourist friendly information packages getting pushed at visitors in the Feed, the original terraforming had been a prestige project. The original corporation had wanted to show off their ability to not just terraform, but to worldbuild to exact and exacting specifications.

It had ended up bankrupting them.

And the corporation that jumped in with a hostile takeover. And the next. And the three after that..

Eventually someone got involved who didn't, so now they had a beautifully terraformed planet with five small continents, each a detailed and faithfully recreated tribute to a time period on humanity's original planet, complete with bioengineered fauna.

They could have just wiped out any hazardeous fauna, harvested the plant matter and started a farming colony - well, they did also start a farming colony - but apparently there'd been a lot of agitation from "save the fauna" campaigns.

At the end of the day the owning corporation had declared the planet 70% protected, with minimal industry - including a series of resorts, because humans are weird and it was conveniently located for a large chunk of the Corporation Rim to visit with not too much trouble.

All of which I already knew, because I'd researched it when Amena told me about how one in her friend group were apparently the offspring of a upper-mid-level manager on the planetary tourist board, and they'd been invited for a spring vacation at the Isla Nublar resort in exchange for advertizing rights.

Still, it was a well-established vacation planet, the on-planet security were allegedly experienced in keeping the humans away from the large fauna and vice versa, and local hospital statistics showed no significant differences from any other vacation planet.

So Amena (and her friend group) went, though not before there'd been adolescent sighs and "yes, Third Mother".

My threat assessment module hadn't really pinged on the entire thing.

Then...

ART entered the wormhole about half an hour after we received news of the attack. When we arrived, the atmosphere above two of the continents were appallingly thick with smoke, but fortunately the resort had not been on either.

The local authorities had not taken too kindly to a random university ship and their SecUnit butting into their raider attack catastrophe, but at the end of the day, once it was established that we just wanted to collect our particular humans and leave, they waved us through and focused on the bigger problem of two nextdoor business rivals offering their help.

So I lead a team down to Isla Nublar, were the buildings were singed and smoking and a raider landing vessel - well, half a vessel - was floating in the sea outside the safety zone. A vast shadow slid past underneath it, making me threat assessment module scream at me.

The safety zone fences and forcefields on land that were supposed to keep the resort and the continental land mass safely separate were down. Large flying fauna were eyeing us from the top of resort buildings and land fauna lurked inside.

The only humans were not alive, and most were half eaten. Ugh.

Amena wasn't among them.

Which could mean one of two things. One, that she had been scooped up as indentured labour to be as had obviously been the raiders' intention for the resort - except the evidence suggested that the raiders had run afoul of unexpected safety measures. A few obviously-not-uniformed-staff-or-ununiformed-guests were among the half eaten humans.

Then we found a barely alive augmented human raider and chased off the two-legged, chittering fauna that'd been determinedly trying to yank out his augmented eyeball. He was happy to be saved, less happy to be held at gunpoint until he told me what I wanted to know.

Apparently, the attack had gone wrong - a maritime fauna had destroyed two of their vessels, crashing one into the control tower of the resort, and fauna had come streaming in. He had crawled from the wreckage and managed to hide for a time, but noticed a few people grabbing land vehicles and heading along the safari paths towards the mainland.

He couldn't describe any of the refugees, but his augments had recorded them. There were clear visuals of at least two of Amena's friends.

I pinged ART, asking if it had had any luck getting permission to deploy its pathfinders.

"Negative," it replied. "The local authorities are stonewalling all external offers to re-establish the communication network as well. Considering the level of destruction, they are probably not wrong to worry about an attempt at a takeover."

If I'd been human, I'd have sighed.

Instead, I checked my large gun's ammunition level and turned towards the safari paths leading almost immediately into a densely forested area. Fauna was moving in the shadows of the foliage, and from somewhere inside something made a sound like a monster from one of my sillier shows.

"I take it we're going in?" Tarik said.

"Yes."

"I noticed a service garage of sorts half a kilometer back. Want me to take a couple of guys back, see if I can get us some transport?"

I sent one drone back with him and called the rest of them back from where they'd been swarming all over the resort.

Then, just as the first of Tarik's new jeeps finally approached, that monster sound came from the forest again, and this time the fauna making it stepped out.

It was a two-legged beast, easily as heigh as most of the resort buildings, and with a mouth big enough to snap a human in two.

Ugh. I really hate planets.

[thejadeprincesss]

Good morning from your favorite angel girl 🪽🩷

[trippinsorrows]

looking through your eyes + twelve

authors note: ya'll remember the theme song from wizards of waverly place? 'everything is not what it seems'? yeah....remember that.

also, don't cuss me out for the ending, pleassseeee.

shoutout to the lovely @fearlesschimera for helping me with the italian translations! ❤️

if any cw/tw’s are missed, please let me know, and i will add them!

cw/tw: violence against women, scene of dv, slight fighting? language, angst, fluff, sexy time scene aka mild smut

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

masterlist

words: 10k (unhinged)

So, I remember when we were driving, driving in your car

Speed so fast, I felt like I was drunk

City lights laid out before us

And your arm felt nice wrapped around my shoulder

And I, I had a feeling that I belonged

I, I had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone

Nina’s singing and subsequent light laughter is what tears away Solana’s focus from her artwork. Turning away from the paper on the dining room table, she angles her body in the chair, swinging her legs around as she watches her mom dance around the kitchen.

Nina’s voice is soft and melodic, a nice compliment to the singer whose name Solana can never remember despite this being one of her mom’s, if not thee, favorite song.

Without thinking twice about it, Solana climbs off the chair and runs up to hug her mom from the side.

Nina’s smile grows even more as she looks down at her only daughter. “Mija.”

Solana looks up, big eyes reflecting the same amount of love and adoration. She responds in her mom’s native language. A ‘secret’ little thing they do in times like this where her dad and brother are gone. Communicating in only a way they can understand. 

“I wanna dance with you, mommy!”

Nina’s laughter is similar to her singing and speaking voice. And it’s infectious too, Solana joining in as Nina playfully spins her around. “Then dance with me, mija.”

Solana doesn’t need to be told twice. And maybe it’s less dancing and more moving around in a way that represents the happiness both mother and daughter feel in this moment. A brief little thing, something that happens in small to medium doses infrequently. 

But when it does roll around, the both of them capture and hold onto it with all that they have. 

When the song finishes, Nina turns down the music system as she redirects Solana to her art. “Can I see what you made?”

It’s a question she already knows the answer to. Solana nodding furiously as she takes her hand and guides her over to the table. Pointing, Solana explains, “look, mommy, it’s you and me!”

Nina gasps quietly. Even at seven, her daughter seems to have a gift with the arts. Reading, writing, and drawing. It hurts her sometimes that she can’t feed it more. That she’s limited to so little resources when it comes to helping Solana better her craft. 

Nina lifts up Solana and sits down in the chair, her daughter on her lap. “It’s beautiful, mija. You’re so talented.”

The complement brightens Solana’s smile. “Just like you, mommy!” Solana lifts up the page, offering additional explanation. “See, that’s you and me at the Play—playa—”

Nina helps her out, “Playa Norte, Isla Mujeres?” 

Solana nods. “That!” 

A brief sweep of sadness overcomes her with memories of home. Memories of simpler, happier times. Her children still bring her a sense of fulfillment, but it’s often weighed down by the trauma of everything else. “Oh, I wish you could see the water, Sol. It’s so beautiful, so clear. It’s like heaven on earth.”

Solana looks up at her with all of her naivety and innocence. “We can go there one day, mommy, right? Just you and me?”

Her throat constricts at Solana’s question. Nina doesn’t have it in her to expose her young child to the ugly truth. “Of course, baby.” She brushes some of Solana’s hair back. “What about your brother?”

It’s not missed upon her how the mention of Wesley makes Solana’s smile dim. “He doesn’t like us….”

“Oh, baby…” Nina brings her hands to gently cradle Solana’s face. “He does. It’s just your father….your father tells him things about us that’s not true, but he does like us. He loves us just like I love you and him. I love you both so much.”

There’s not enough time in the world or ways that she can say it to truly exemplify just how much she means it. Even with Xavier doing everything he can to keep her away from her son, it doesn’t extinguish her love for him. 

If anything, it just makes it stronger. 

The sound of the garage doors lifting brings Nina back to her crushing reality, from her brief escapism. “He’s home.” Wide eyes dart to the kitchen as she realizes dinner is still about twenty minutes out from being ready. “Come, mija!” Nina jumps from the table and is quick to gather all of Solana’s artwork. She knows how this will play out, and she refuses to allow him to destroy Solana’s work the same way he often does her own. Reaching it to her, Nina hurriedly advises, “go to your bathroom, lock the door, and don’t come out until I come get you, okay?” Trembling hands reach Solana the CD player and headphones. “Don’t take these off, you hear me?”

Solana’s smile is completely gone, her eyes watering, “he’s gonna hurt you, isn’t he?”

Nina swallows back her sob. “‘Don’t worry about me, Solana. Just do as I say, okay?” The sound of the door to the garage being ripped open alerts her to just how pressed for time they are. With all of the urgency, she pleads, “go!”

And despite everything in her wanting her to stay, to help, to do whatever she can, Solana does as she’s told.

Rushing up the stairs, Solana doesn’t stop until she’s in the bathroom. She locks the door and falls on the floor, back up against it, eyes watering even more.

She moves as fast as she can to put her headphones on, but it’s not fast enough. She can’t make out specific words, but it’s not needed to know and hear her father’s angry yelling followed by the pained wails of her mom. Glass breaking, items being thrown, Xavier’s screams of unbridled fury.

That’s when the dam breaks, tears spilling out of her eyes as she hits play to sound out the noise that never really goes away, never really stops haunting her, from making her chest feel so full and heavy.

This….this is the soundtrack to her life. 

Solana isn’t unsure how long she sits there, working so hard to drown out the cries and screams of her best friend. Long enough to where she falls asleep only to be woken up by the same woman whose shouts of terror unintentionally and tragically lulled her to sleep.

The first thing Solana notices is the blood, followed by the puffy, blackened area under her right eye. Still, her mom is only focused on her, hand under her chin as she asks, “are you okay, mija?”

The tears return as Solana is face to face with the result of her father whose anger knows no bounds. “Mommy….”

“Don’t cry, baby.” Nina pulls Solana against her chest, braving the pain coursing through her body, particularly her ribs. “I’m—I’m okay.”

She hates lying to her daughter, feels almost sick with herself for gaslighting her. Solana is wise and perceptive. She knows that her mother is far from fine.

“What if—what if one day he hurts you real bad?”

Nina wasn’t expecting this question, wasn’t expecting her young daughter to ask something she herself has thought about from time to time. 

What happens when Xavier finally takes his beatings too far?

Shoving away those dark thoughts, Nina shows Solana her inner forearm. “What is this, Sol?”

Solana wipes at her eyes and focuses on the beautifully, dark inked hummingbird tattoo on her mom’s skin. “A Hummingbird.”

“That’s right.” Nina wipes at her tears. “And what did I tell you about Hummingbirds? Hmm? What do they mean to our people?”

Solana sniffles and explains in a quiet voice. “They’re messengers from the spirits in heaven.”

“Exactly, so that means even when people leave us in one form, they’re still here in another. Still here even if they look a little different.” Nina’s voice cracks a bit as she promises, “I’m always with you, Solana. No matter what.”

Emotion building back up, Solana thrusts herself against Nina and cries into her chest. “Why can’t we leave, mommy?” She looks up, full of confusion and fear. “Then he can’t hurt you anymore.” Nina swallows. “We can run away where he won’t find us!”

Nina has a hard time holding back her tears. A dream. That would be a dream. If she could somehow escape this hell, take her children from this nightmare. But, it's just that, a dream. Because this is the life they live. This is her reality. 

And there’s nothing that can change that.

Not without her putting her children’s lives at risk, because Xaver has made it abundantly clear in a variety of violent ways what will happen should she ever be “stupid” enough to think she could leave.

“Listen to me, Solana.” She wipes away the tears of her sweet child. “This…what your father does to me….it’s not love, and it’s not okay. I don’t want you to ever let a man treat you that way.” It feels almost bitter leaving her mouth, the amount of hypocrisy she feels at saying such a thing. If only she could practice what she preaches. “You are so special, and your heart is so big.” She places her hand over Solana’s chest. “This is your biggest gift, and you must always be careful who you share it with. Because yours is extra special.” She presses her lips against Solana’s forehead. “No matter what, never forget that life is a gift. You are a gift, Solana.” Her eyes shut, absorbing all the love and comfort. “My sol.”

________

Memories of much darker, sadder times have unintentionally become a motivating factor for Solana during training. She finds a sort of strength and fuel at reflecting on times from the past where she was bogged down with such fear. 

Now though, it’s not as much fear as something else that’s unfamiliar but not unwarranted.

Anger. 

It’s what helps and almost keeps her on her feet and in the game as she spars with Bayley, knife in the back of her shorts. It’s the first time she’s done as such, practiced training, practiced fighting, with that little thing that’s caused her so much pain throughout her life.

But now, she’s the one with the blade, with the ability to use it against someone else vs it being used against her. 

It’s a different feeling, still uncomfortable, but also empowering in a strange sort of way.

Naomi is on the side, calling out various tips and reminders as Solana is able to successfully avoid certain hits and attacks from Bayley. She knows her friend is still holding back a bit, but not nearly as much as she did in the beginning.

Solana slightly appreciates that.

She feels….she feels good almost knowing that the progress she’s made isn’t because it’s been given to her. It’s been earned.

And unbeknownst to her, there’s an audience observing the sparring, an audience that consists of none other than the twins, Nia, and her husband who watch from the balcony above.

Roman had a meeting with Nia earlier in the day, hence his presence at the Warehouse, but staying after to silently observe Solana while she trains wasn’t necessarily on the agenda. It just happened.

Much to the chagrin of Wise Man who once again tries to remind Roman of what he already knows. He clears his throat, nerves big and evident, “sir, I hate to interrupt, but we do have to meet with—-”

“I’m aware.”

Paul swallows, closing his eyes as he sends up a prayer, asking for mercy. “Of course, sir, but—but, if we don’t leave now—”

“The meeting will start whenever I arrive, and I’ll get there when I get there.” Roman’s dark, irritated gaze falls on his chief advisor. “Is that understood?”

Paul straightens, more than familiar with that look. The look that can be followed up with an act of violence. “Y—yes, my Tribal Chief.” 

With that shit straightened out, Roman easily falls back into the almost trance he’s in watching her. 

Updates with her progress from Naomi and Bayley have been one thing, but it’s another to actually see her in action. 

See the precision and speed in which she moves. She seems almost….in her element.

A far cry from the terrified mess she was when he first met her.

She’s coming into her own, and he loves to see that shit. 

But, it’s when Bayley lands a particularly harsh blow against Solana, one that has her holding onto her face that Roman steps forward. A fresh wave of anger comes over him at the fact that Bayley could be so stupid to hit her so hard. She should fucking know better. 

Who the fuck does she think she is to hit Solana?

He’s stopped, however, when Nia extends her arm across his big body, preventing him from checking on his wife. 

He turns toward her, and if looks could kill, she’d be dead. “Move.”

She rolls her eyes, unbothered, motioning for him to continue watching. “Wait.”

Roman has no fucking intentions on waiting. Not when Solana could be hurt. He’s going to tear Bayley a new one for that. Why the fuck would she hit her so hard?

But, it’s as he’s watching and sees Bayley move toward Solana to check on her, that he realizes why Nia may have stopped him from acting too prematurely.

Because Solana is suddenly no longer doubled over. She’s bringing her knee up to Bayley, forcing the other woman to double over from some level of pain. But Solana doesn’t stop. She instead uses her leg to swipe Bayley off her feet, sending her into the ground.

Solana pounces on top of her, forcing her on her stomach. Straddling her, a fist full of her hair as she yanks her head back and brings the knife up to her neck.

Roman smiles.

Around him, the twins start to make a whole scene.

“Oh shit, okay Soso! I see you girl!”

“Alright, sis! That’s how you do it!”

Roman watches as she drops the knife almost immediately but not before she smiles, emotional almost, while being cheered on by Naomi who runs over and hugs her from the side. Solana laughs as she stands up, Bayley also jumping up, joining in the celebration.

“You know, it’s not very often that I'm wrong, but I gotta admit.” Roman turns to Nia who also looks a level of impressed. “I was wrong about Princess.” Nia chuckles. “Girl’s got some fight in her after all.”

Roman doesn’t say anything, but that’s not out of disagreement.

Solana might be one of the strongest people he’s ever met.

And it has nothing to do with what he just witnessed.

Nia continues, announcing, “I think she’s ready to advance to the next level.”

Roman has his own definition of what that is, but he’s slightly curious about Nia’s take. “Which is?”

“She needs to start training with a man.”

He nods. They’re on the same page then. “I’ll talk with her about taking over—”

“No.”

“Excuse me?” Nia has always been outspoken, but there are some days he has to remind himself that she’s family. Because her smart ass mouth on anyone else would have them six feet under.

“She’s comfortable with you. It needs to be with someone she doesn’t know.”

And this time, Roman is the one shooting it down. “No.” To make Solana train and fight with a man, a stranger at that, seems like it would be triggering for her. In no way, shape, or form will he let that shit happen.

Nia, however, seems intent on just that. “Look, four months ago, I would agree with you, but look at what that girl just did. She grounded Bayley, Roman.” He looks away, running his hand over his face. “She’s come a long way, and to stop her now would only be a disservice. You’d be hindering her.” When he says nothing, mostly because he knows she has a point and he hates that, she continues. “And I’d say have Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum do it, but she seems to be comfortable with them too. For some reason.”

Jey finishes chewing his snack, most likely a creation by Solana, asking with all the obliviousness, “hey, what’d you say?”

Roman ignores him while Nia rolls her eyes. “You’re a stubborn bastard, Roman, but you’re not stupid.” He looks at her. “You know I’m right.” 

He turns away,  watching as Bayely and Naomi talk to Solana, clearly providing her additional instruction. He’s focused on Solana. She looks so….relaxed. So in her element. It’s such a far cry from the first time he met her.

She’s almost like an entirely different person. This causes him to sigh loudly. 

Nia is correct. He’d be hindering the growth that’s got her to where she is today.

And that’s something he could never forgive himself for.

“I’ll talk to her.”

________

Bayley: If ya’ll could go anywhere in the world, where would it be?

Solana is taking a brief break to check her phone, mainly for any texts from Roman, when Bayley sends her message in the group chat that the three of them share.

Naomi: Ooooh, Bora Bora! Heard it’s beautiful!

Bayley: Nice! I’d say the Maldives. 

Bayley: Solana?

It’s a good question that she doesn’t really have the answer for. 

Solana: Idk. I’ve…I’ve never been out of the country, so it’s hard to say.

Naomi: Seriously? Never traveled at all?

Solana: No. 

Bayley: So then there definitely has to be someplace! 

It takes a minute for her to really think about how to respond, because her initial instinct is to double down on her first answer. But, it’s when her memory from earlier in the day returns to the forefront of her mind that she finds herself being more open than she anticipated. 

Solana: Playa Norte, Isla Mujeres. It’s in Mexico. My mom always said the water was so beautiful. 

And that they would visit someday.

That never happened though.

It never happened because she was murdered before she could make the dream come true. 

An uncomfortable blanket of sadness comes over her, forcing Solana to put her phone down and resume her work, an effective distraction. 

She grabs a set of books that need to be restocked and makes her way over to the appropriate aise when she overhears low sniffles.

Frowning, she places the books down on the cart and follows the sound of the sniffles that sound a lot like someone crying. It's when she moves to the next aisle that she finds the source.

A little girl. No more than 6 or 7. She’s sat up against a row of books, little legs pulled up to her chest as she cries into her knees.

Solana’s frown deepens as she slowly approaches the child, leaving enough distance to not startle her. Solana knows better than most the detriment of being taken off guard when already upset.

“Hi there.” Her head snaps up, and right away Solana is met with striking blue eyes that are blurred with tears and an emotion Solana knows all too well.

Fear.

“It’s okay,” she comforts, intentional about keeping her distance and voice soft. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

The little girl who, in a strange way, reminds her a lot of herself with her light complexion and russ brown hair that’s a combination of curl patterns, stammers with a response. “My—my mommy and daddy said I can’t talk to strangers.”

Solana smiles warmly. “Your mommy and daddy are very smart.” Staying where she is, Solana slides down onto the floor. She brings her legs to her side and offers her name. “My name is Solana. I work here in the library.” Wanting to earn some level of trust, Solana informs, “I really like to read.”

Her eyes light up a bit. “You do?”

She nods, keeping her smile. “My mom used to read with me all the time. Does your mommy ever read with you?”

The little girl nods and wipes at her eyes. “Yes. Daddy does too sometimes, but he works a lot.”

Solana’s smile dims a bit. She can both relate and not relate. Her father was never really home, and she preferred it that way. But when he was….it was hell. 

Using the opening, Solana asks softly, “where is your mommy?”

She hesitates, and her bottom lip trembles a bit, but she ends up explaining her presence. “I was walking outside with mommy, and I saw a butterfly, and—and I wanted to catch it, but then I got lost.” She starts to cry as Solana puts the pieces together, realizing she ran off, got lost, and maybe ventured into the library to ask for help. Or to cry in a safe space.

Solana gets that too.

“It’s okay, sweetie. I’ll help you find your mommy, okay?” 

The offer seems to settle her emotions a bit. Solana watches as she wipes her eyes and almost asks in a hopeful tone. “R–really?”

Solana smiles again and nods. “Of course.” She stands up, not moving from her spot but offering her hand. “You want to come with me?”

The little girl nods and stands up, slowly walking up to Solana and taking her hand. She looks up, sharing in a slightly more confident tone, “my name is Emma.”

“That’s a very pretty name.” Solana gently squeezes her hand. “Now let’s go find your mommy.” 

Solana notes how Emma squeezes her hand back. It warms her heart.

She guides Emma toward the steps, careful to not walk too fast, mindful of the fact that Emma is still, wisely, very cautious of the fact that Solana is still a stranger.

Solo meets Solana at the bottom of the steps, his unkind gaze falling on Emma who hides herself behind Solana.

Looking down, she advises her, “it’s okay, sweetie.”

Solo rolls his eyes, gesturing with his chin. “Who is this?”

Solana looks back at him, answering while intentionally not providing a name. Emma provided Solana her name, not Solo. “She got separated from her mother. I’m gonna help her find her.”

He scoffs. “Ain’t that what the police is for?” 

Frowning, Solana finds herself defending her actions. “She’s already scared.”

He cuts his eyes, voice sharp as she reminds her of his role. “My job is to protect and watch you. Not some random badass kid—”

“D–don’t call her that.” Anger. Solana finds herself growing angry with Solo’s disposition. A rare emotion for her. But, she can’t stop thinking about the scared little girl clinging onto her leg, finding some form of comfort in her. She can’t stop thinking about how she used to be that little girl. How she used to cling onto her mother for comfort. 

Until she couldn’t.

“I’ll help her by myself. I—” Solana swallows. “I don’t need your help.” 

The library is in neutral territory. She should be fine to walk up and down the street to help an innocent child without the protection of someone Solana is realizing really doesn’t want to be there in the first place.

Gently encouraging Emma to follow her, Solana leads the little girl out the double doors of the library and onto the busy sidewalk.

Solo never comes after her.

And in a weird, sort of unfamiliar twist that she doesn’t really understand, Solana prefers it that way.

She prefers Solo not toggling along, his negative energy not interfering and exacerbating Emma’s fear.

Leaning down, Solana asks, still with that gentle smile, “do you remember which way you came from?”

Emma frowns again, shaking her head. “N–no.”

“That’s okay. We’ll just look left and right.” Straightening up, Solana decides to go to the left first, knowing that there’s a kids boutique a few doors down. It seems like a good place to start. And it’s while walking, Emma suddenly asks a question that literally makes Solana feel like she’s gotten the wind knocked out of her.

“Are you a mommy?”

Solana hasn’t the slightest clue why it takes a second for her to answer such a basic question. The question, in terms of complexity, is simple and can be answered with a single word. But everything else with it is…..not easy. Because she has no idea why her tone suddenly shifts to something sad as she finally replies.

“No.” And before she can think about what’s leaving her mouth, before she can even process what she’s saying, Solana adds, “not yet.”

It takes a lot for Solana to not backtrack, to try to offer some explanation that probably wouldn’t make any sense to such a young child why she was taking her answer back. But beyond that, there’s a part of Solana that doesn’t want to take it back.

She doesn’t want to take it back because….because maybe it’s the truth. 

Emma looks up with a small smile, revealing a missing front tooth. “You’re gonna be a nice mommy.”

Her chest constricts, and Solana feels her eyes watering from an emotion she can’t pinpoint.

Emotional smile and all, she manages to keep the tears at bay. “Thank—”

“Emma!”

Solana and Emma snap their heads and attention to the source of the voice, as Emma drops Solana’s hand.

“Mommy!” 

Solana jogs behind Emma who makes a mad dash in the direction of the woman who called her name. Solana stops when a large man moves in between her and Emma and the woman.

Emma’s little voice calls out at the same time Solana backs away, a bit of anxiety growing in her stomach as she thinks about the knife in the back pocket of her jeans. “No, she’s my friend!” 

“Bron, back off.” The woman speaks, and almost instantly, the large man with cold eyes that remind her of Solo moves away. The view and path is cleared again as Solana sees Emma being held by a woman who could never deny the child in her arms belongs to her. Emma is her twin outside of the blue eyes Solana would guess she got from her father.

“Mommy, this is Solana.” Emma introduces, pointing and waving. “She helped me find you!”

The woman, a few inches taller than Solana, with hazel eyes and almost perfect facial features, smiles. Again, Solana sees nothing but Emma. “Thank you so much—”

The large man who Solana hasn’t forgotten about and vice versa chimes in. “Brandi—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Bron.” She cradles Emma closer to her chest, as Solanaa clears her throat.

“Of course.” She points behind her. “I—umm—I work at the library. I—I do a kids reading club on Mondays, if—if Emma would like to join.”

Emma’s eyes light up at that as she’s pulling on her mom’s sleeve. “Mommy, can I go?”

The woman, Brandi, as Solana heard the large, unkind man refer to her frowns a bit. “After today, I’ll be lucky if your dad lets you or me leave just to check the mail, let alone go into town again.” Still, she turns to Solana, “but thank you for the information. She loves books, so I’d know she’d love to attend.”

And it’s then that Emma throws out with all the innocence of a child. “Solana’s gonna be a mommy too! Just like you!” 

Her breath catches. Solana once again has to fight back the tears that don’t make sense as well as the sadness that doesn’t make even more sense. “Some…someday.”

Brandi offers a smile that’s reassuring. Like she understands what doesn’t need to be directly stated. “Well, I wish you all the luck.” She tickles Emma’s stomach and jokes, “they’re a handful.”

And for a second, just the briefest of a second, solana visualizes just that. Visualizes herself holding a child, a child that would have her smile. Roman’s eyes. His strong will. Her innocence.

A perfect representation of them both.

But, it’s quickly pushed away, stomped on by logic.

That…..that’s not even something she should allow herself to consider right now when they haven’t even consummated their marriage.

Even if that very visual is exactly why the marriage was arranged in the first place. 

She clears her throat. Despite being outside, Solana all of a sudden feels almost closed in. “I—I should get back to work.” 

Brandi nods. “Of course.” She doesn’t even have to direct Emma to say goodbye, as the little girl with a sweet smile full of innocence is already on it.

“Bye, Solana!” She then adds on with all of the hope. “I hope I see you again!”

Solana hopes the same too.

After parting, Solana noticing the almost menacing glare that ‘Bron’ man sends her way, she walks back to the library in complete silence, feeling so conflicted and torn by emotions that usually don’t work in her favor in general.

But, it’s when she’s about to head up the steps, Solo appears again wearing an almost smug expression, that she stops in her tracks at his comment. “You done playing mother Teresa?”

She doesn’t know where it comes from. Doesn’t know how she’s even able to allow it to leave the safety of her mouth, the confines of her thoughts vs being expressed. But, that’s exactly what happens. 

Solana turns to him and doesn’t stutter as she asserts, “you don’t get to talk to me like that.” Swallowing and with an uncharacteristically amount of confidence, she warns almost, “Roman wouldn’t let you talk to me like that.”

And it seems like that not so little reminder of who her husband is triggers something for him. Solo clears his throat, muttering almost, “my apologies.” He asks, a perfect combination of forced concern and obligation, “whose kid?”

She starts not to answer, but being a form of assertive and dismissive feels like too much in one day. “I don’t know. Some man with her called her Brandi?”

At that, his attention seems almost intensified. He’s quiet for a moment. “Brandi?”

Confused at his subtle but noticeable change in demeanor, Solana nods. “Yeah. I think she called the man Bron?” 

Solo looks away, like there’s something about these two pieces of information that are important. So she asks, “why?”

Solo’s gaze is back on her, and like a snap of a finger, the intensity in his expression melts into something cavalier. “Nothing.”

Solana is quiet. And suspicious. Something in the pit of her stomach tells her there’s something he’s not telling her, something he’s keeping to himself. 

But she doesn’t push it.

She’s got other things on her mind.

Other things she shouldn’t have on her mind. 

But, she does. She really, really does.

________

Later that evening, the strange, conflicting emotions from her encounter with Emma and her mother, Brandi, are still plaguing Solana. She’s grateful that Roman has to take his dinner in his office due to work, because it at least gives her space to process such big emotions without him picking up on anything being wrong.

He seems to be very good at that. 

In preparation for winding down for the evening, she’s at the sink, washing the dishes when Roman comes up behind her. It’s only a brief second of tension that’s easily settled by his arms around her, his mouth on her neck. 

She smiles, noticing the increasing amount of comfort and want she’s experiencing at him touching her.

It’s getting to the point where she almost craves his touch.

It’s…comforting. 

Roman makes a sound, lips moving up to kiss her cheek. “Meet me at the pool in an hour.”

She frowns, turning toward him. “What?”

He brings hand to her mouth, thumb gliding over her bottom lip. “You said you wanted to get in, right?”

“I—” And she can’t protest, can’t find a way to politely disagree. Because she did say that. And he’s clearly holding her to it. “Yes.”

His hand slides down to cup her ass, Solana gasping quietly as he smirks. “Then let’s do it.” Her eyes shut, and she bites down on her bottom lip as he whispers in her ear, “I want to see that bathing suit of yours.”

Another gasp as he squeezes her ass. “Roman.” 

He says nothing else, walking away. Solana takes a second to reflect on the interaction, sits on the fact that he was able to touch her and she didn’t tense up. Didn’t freeze up. She almost…she almost liked it.

But what she doesn’t like is the fact that she now has to apparently meet this man in the pool wearing that bathing suit that nobody but her made him aware of. He would have never known she even owned it she hadn’t opened her mouth in a poor way to distract him.

And now he wants to see her in it.

And now the anxiety is growing again. 

Because while she’s grown more comfortable with his touching her, she’s been almost entirely clothed during those times. Even with the more revealing outfits. This one will definitely take the cake. She’s not sure her lingerie from their wedding night was as showy as this bikini.

She takes her time finishing up the dishes and is at least grateful to see he’s nowhere near their room or bathroom as she sneaks in and locks the door to put it on. 

Solana must mess around with the suit at least ten different times. Pulling. Tugging. Tightening. It doesn’t make a difference because the swell of her chest and backside prove too much. There’s not much to be hidden, to be camouflaged, to be covered up. And that’s always been her preference. Never in her life has she owned or even worn a two piece suit. And yet, here she is about to step out in one that leaves little to the imagination in front of one of the most attractive men she’s ever laid eyes on.

A man that gives her butterflies with just one look of his dark, beautiful eyes. 

She tries telling herself that it’s just Roman. That she shouldn’t overthink it so much. That he’s made his attraction to her clear, time and time again. But, it’s hard to factor those things in when he’s never seen this much of her, so much skin, so much scarred skin. Skin with stretch marks and cellulite. Scars from the stabbing. The pudge of her belly.

It’s all so…revealing. Physically and emotionally.

It’s almost to the point where she has more anxiety about him seeing this much of her body than actually getting in the water, which was and should be the main source of her abundance of nerves.

But, it’s not. It’s not because even with all of her progress, it’s so hard to not compare herself to other women he’s been with. Women like Samantha who look nothing like her, who must look better than her.

That brings on a deeper level of insecurity. 

Will he compare her body to Samantha’s? How can he not? 

They’re night and day. One is preferred. One is shunned.

And Solana has never been preferred.

Eyes watering, she reaches for the large t-shirt and slides it over her body, comforted by not being faced with so many flaws. Deterred entirely, she starts to think of an explanation she can give Roman as to why she can’t get in the pool tonight.

Or any other night. 

But when she steps out of the bathroom, that plan is thrown out the window because Roman is sitting on the edge of the bed. 

Shirtless.

Wearing only swim trunks.

She’s momentarily focused on him. Focused on every rippling muscle of his body that’s damn near perfect. So opposite of her own.

Realizing she’s staring, she shakes her head, “I—”

“It’s been an hour.” Roman drags his eyes over her, and it’s like she knows what he’s going to say before it leaves his mouth. “You’re not dressed.”

Pushing back some of her hair, Solana is very much focused on the piece of abstract art on the wall opposite his bed. “I was thinking—”

“No.”

That she wasn’t expecting. Such a….blunt rejection. Eyes back on him, she frowns. “What?”

“You’re not backing out.” Solana swallows. He sounds so definitive. “I won’t make you get completely in the water, because I understand why that’s difficult for you.” She says nothing, at least grateful for his understanding in that area. “But you can at least sit on the edge. Work your way up to it.” An ironic choice of wording considering the other thing they’re working their way up to. He stands from the bed, and as much as Solana wants to look away, she can’t. She’s focused on him. All 6’3 of him. So intimidating. But not to her. So strong. But he’s never used his strength against her. So attractive. The same way he feels about her. 

“Without the shirt.”

Her stomach drops, anxiety brewing again. “Roman….”

He’s suddenly in front of her, his hands reaching to pull her against him. “That’s not your trauma. It’s your insecurity, and I’m not accepting that shit because it’s not fucking fair for you to be as beautiful as you are and not see or feel it.”

She swallows as he reaches for the hem of her shirt. “Off.” It’s a statement, but there’s a questioning nature to it. Like regardless of how he feels, he’s still giving her the space to say no. 

To have that autonomy. 

It’s appreciated.

It’s also why despite her anxiety, with her eyes closed, she relents. “O–off.”

Roman doesn’t seem to waste any time pulling her shirt up and over her head. And as soon as she feels the chilly air of his room on her body, the realization that she’s more exposed in front of him than she’s ever been before, she’s crossing her arms over her chest. 

Hiding.

Embarrassed.

“No.” And his hands are on her forearms, pushing down, gently but with purpose. “No hiding.” She keeps her eyes closed as he forces her arms down at her side. “Solana, look at me.” And she wants to, she actually wants to, but it’s hard, because all she can imagine is his disgust, his disinterest. “Look at me.”

His tone is somehow forceful but gentle, in a way only he can do. In a way that never makes her feel scared, but always safe. 

So she obliges.

Roman’s gaze is on her, intentful and burning. His jaw is clenched. “It pisses me the fuck off that you’ve been made to feel anything less than fucking gorgeous.” And she watches as he travels his beautiful eyes over her body. Slowly. With a level of desire that she, even with all of her insecurities, can’t deny. Men like Roman don’t look at women like that unless they want them in that way. “The things I want to do to you….”

And once again, he’s affirming and practically repeating everything he’s assured her of several times now.

He wants her. 

“I’m going to make you believe it.” Wetting her lips, she watches Roman take her hand in his. “Come here.” 

He walks them over to the opposite side of his room where the black, full body mirror rests against the wall. His hands are on her hips, positioning her so that she’s standing directly in front of him, her back pressed into his chest. 

“Keep your eyes open.” His voice is commanding but still calm enough where it doesn’t unnerve her. “Spread your legs.” Solana is certain Roman can feel the way her body instantly tenses, because he’s kissing the shell of her ear, reassuring her. “Relax, baby. I won’t touch you there until you’re ready. Just trust me.”

And she does.

Maybe more than she’s ever trusted anyone.

It’s why she moves her legs apart so that her thick thighs are no longer rubbing against each other.

Again, he’s comforting her, “trust me…” Solana is briefly confused as to why he’s repeating himself when his hand is on her backside, squeezing in a way that makes her head fall back against his chest. “I love your ass.” She makes a sound, almost too low to hear when he moves his hands to her chest, big, strong hands cupping her breast. “But, I especially fucking love these.”

She moves her much smaller hands over his. For what reason, she doesn’t know. All she knows is that she nearly groans when his thumb flicks over her hardened areolas through the fabric of her swimsuit. 

“Roman….” Despite his clear directive, it’s hard to keep her eyes open when there’s so much coursing through her body.

“You know why I said your name when I was with her?” Not really, but also yes. It’s difficult for Solana to think straight with him touching her like this. A strange, unfamiliar feeling settling at the bottom of her belly. 

His mouth is back on her, kissing her jawline as he continues to caress her breast, alternating between light massaging and caressing her nipples. “Because I was imagining she was you. Because it’s you I want to be inside.”

Solana’s eyes are bouncing back and forth between open and closed, the soles of her feet  almost numb as standing suddenly feels much more difficult than it should be. There’s an unfamiliar ache in between her legs that has her thighs pressing back against each other. 

Her body is on fire, and despite this intimate touching, she has no desire to push him away. Doen’t feel shackled and stuck in a way that’s reminiscent of her trauma. She wants his touch on her. 

His deep, alluring voice is in her ear, watching every single one of her erotic reactions through the mirror. “There’s not a single part of you that I don’t want to touch….” Her breathing is labored and heavy almost as he moves his hand and trails his finger down the valley of her breast. “To feel…..” Her eyes are fluttering as his hand moves down to her stomach, hers shooting to rest on top of his, an unconscious effort to keep him from feeling the part of her that she’s always felt 

self-conscious about. Only for her to cry out when he lightly squeezes her stomach, rolls and all. “To taste….”

It should make her mortified, for him to be grabbing so freely a part of her that she used to cry over from embarrassment. But, it doesn’t. She’s simply trying to remain strong enough to remain on her own two feet.

Her body is on fire, and there’s this pressure building in her core. Intense but oh so delicious. A brand new sensation.

Whimpering, she moves her hand to his wrist. “Roman, I—”

“I know,” he coaxes, pressing his lips to her shoulder. “That’s what I want, baby.”  He moves his mouth over to her clavicle, tongue wetting her burning skin. “Want you to feel good….”

Good is an understatement. She feels completely overwhelmed in a way she didn’t think possible.

 And it only intensifies when his fingers create circles across her lower belly. Tears are pooling in her eyes, the throbbing in her belly and most intimate part increasing with every touch and every word that leaves his mouth. 

Solana also recognizes the wetness pooling between her legs. Something else she’s never experienced. Not like this. She’s been able to become aroused before, but never to this extent.

Not to this intensity. 

The pressure feels too much, too heavy, but she can’t seem to find the words to express as such while Roman continues to talk her through it.

“The next time you touch yourself, I want you to think of me.” His lips are ghosting the shell of her ear, his fingers continuing to trickle across the lower skin of her belly. “My mouth on you. Me inside of you.” 

She gasps, loud enough for it to almost echo throughout the room and almost bounce off the walls. “Oh my god….”

She feels just about ready to explode when his other hand has moved to her inner thighs, long fingers dancing across her skin and prying her thighs apart. She’s almost certain her essence has made her way past her bottoms and coats the tips of his fingers.  “I’m gonna be your first.” His words puncture her resolve, but it’s the latter statement that completely destroys it. “And your last.”

Solana cries out, stomach in waves as she squeezes his wrist, intense pleasure nearly knocking her off her feet if not for his strong arms around her. Solana feels partially discombobulated as he whispers things in her ear that she’s far too overwhelmed to make out.

She’s not sure how long she’s standing there, doesn’t know how long he’s holding her, helping her land back down to earth. She just knows there’s a pulsing between her legs that she’s never had before. An aftermath almost. 

The aftermath at what had to have been a climax. 

It takes a few minutes for her to finally be able to formulate words. She looks up at him, trying to not think too much of the way he circled his finger around the spillage between her thighs. It’s enough to make her womanhood start to pulse again. “how did—-I’ve never—”

Roman looks down at her, eyes almost narrowed with pure curiosity as she asks, “have you never had an orgasm before?”

Cheeks still flamed from what just occurred but also slight embarrassment at her answer, she explains, “I’ve—I’ve tried before, but I just—I couldn’t.”

He actually looks surprised but simply brings his hand to her chin, kissing her softly. “Well, it damn sure won’t be your last.” He gently bites down on her bottom lip before backing away. “Be outside in 10.” 

It takes a second for her to realize what he’s talking about. She’d completely forgotten what even kicked off all of that.

Watching him leave with her t-shirt, it’s only when he closes the door and she’s alone that something he said finally settles in.

Something that somehow gives her a sense of pleasure more enjoyable than even his talented touch. 

“I’m gonna be your first.” 

Just thinking of it brings tears to her eyes. For an entirely different reason. For so long, she felt so broken and devastated at having her virginity so brutally ripped away. To have it stolen from her before she could even understand what sex was.

And no, she can never truly get it back.

But this….Roman can give her. That first time of actually having a choice.

And that means more to her than he could ever know.

She cares for him more than she’s certain he knows.

And truth be told, Solana is starting to wonder if care is still a strong enough word to describe what she feels for a certain Roman Reigns.

________

After cleaning herself and gathering her bearings, Solana finds Roman out back already in the pool swimming laps as Dulce sits on the side just watching him, her tail wagging. She always seems so excited around him.

Taking advantage of him being underwater and not aware of her presence, Solana moves quickly over to the steps, faltering for a bit before stepping in just enough to where the water brushes against her knees. That’s when the anxiety starts. Her stomach begins knotting.

It’s also when Roman comes up from under, and she’s briefly distracted by just how good he looks while quite literally doing nothing out of the ordinary. She watches him swim over to her, one hand pushing back some of hair, the other reaching for her. 

She hesitates, and he sees it, gently reminding.

“I’ve got you….”

Solana just looks at him. He’s yet to not come through on that promise made time and time again. An oath almost, in every single situation where he’s asserted it.

It’s why she finds herself accepting his hand as she descends further into the water. And just as she recognizes her anxiety heightening along with the water that’s brushing against her chest, Roman tugs her against him. 

Gasping, her hands naturally move onto his shoulders, her legs naturally wrapping around his waist.

“Roman….” She’s looking from side to side as he moves them farther away from the steps. “I—”

“Can you swim?” His question both makes sense and serves as a brief distraction. 

“Y–yes, but I haven’t done it in years.” He’s still moving them though, and that still makes her nervous as more distance is created between her and a way to escape without actually getting under the water. “Roman, I—I can’t—”

“I know.” His assurance is soft, gentle almost. “I’m not gonna let you fall, Solana.”

And she swallows, because there’s an undertone to his statement. Like there’s another meaning that maybe one or both of them isn’t entirely ready to come to terms with.

It’s when they stop moving, she realizes that he wasn’t just aimlessly moving around. He wanted to bring them over to the stool within the pool that he sits on. It’s only then she really becomes cognizant of the fact that she’s straddling him as well as just how close her body is against his.

Not that he seems to mind.

His gaze on her is both distracting and tantalizing. She wants him to never look at her with such desire at the same time she wants him to never look away.

It’s….a strange experience.

Needing there to be some type of conversation, she goes with the first thing that comes to mind. “How….how was your day?”

Roman chuckles. “The same as most.” Solana makes an active effort to ignore how his hands remain planted on her ass, giving just the slightest pressure that makes her softly scratch at his taut skin. “How was yours?”

Eventful. She starts to tell him about Emma and Brandi, but that would somehow lead into a conversation about Solo and his odd behavior recently. And Roman already deals with enough. She doesn’t want to add onto his plate. 

She can handle that on her own.

It’s why she decides to share the most exciting news, a smile growing on her face. “I pinned Bayley today during my training.”

“Did you?” Something tells her that he already knew about this, that he was made aware of this occurrence prior to this moment. Regardless, she’s thankful for him trying to fake surprise. For him trying to give her the satisfaction of being the first to tell him. “Damn. They told me you’ve gotten good. That you’re fast.”

She nods, smile dimming a bit. “I do feel a little bad about how I did it though.”

“Don’t.” He’s quick to dismiss her concerns. “Bayley’s taken much worse in the ring.” After seeing Bayley fight on Night of Champions, she doesn’t doubt that one bit. “There’s actually something I want to talk to you about.”

Her anxiety returns at his ending statement. “O–okay.”

Roman seems to take a minute before explaining, “I think we need to expand your training.” Her confusion is evident and expected as he clarifies with all the preparation in the world for a less than pleased response. “You need to start training with a man.”

Deep down, she already knows his answer before she asks. But, she has to do it anyway. “Like with you?” Open to it, she even suggests, “or the twins?”

Safe people.

As expected, he shakes his head. “No. It needs to be someone you’re not familiar with. Not like you are with me or them.” She looks away, eyes focused on the spotlight on the opposite end of the pool. “It’s only to help you. You can fight now, that’s good. But, you need to learn how to fight someone you don’t feel comfortable with, because that’s the reality of our world.” He elaborates, seemingly pulling her closer to him. “I’m never going to let you be in a position where you have to defend yourself like that against a man, but it’s good for you to know regardless.”

That helps a bit. She believes him. Believes that he’ll never let her be in that space ever again.

But, there’s a ‘what if’ thought that she can’t push away. Because nothing in life is promised or final. Anything and nothing can happen. She could very well find herself one day on the opposite end of her brother, and the thought of him having that hold and power over her makes her sick.

Should that day ever roll around again, she wants it to be different. She wants to be different.

She wants to be able to fight back.

“I’ll do it.” She agrees in a quiet tone and goes on to briefly explain her answer. “I think—I think I need to do it for me.”

Roman simply nods and acknowledges her acceptance with a single word. “Okay.”

Solana is grateful he doesn’t follow up with additional questions. She doesn’t really want to talk about that, doesn’t want to participate in conversations that bring up old, painful memories. “Can I at least meet them before we start training?”

“Of course.” That provides another layer of relief. “Are you still alright with the Gala?”

And this time, she nods. A few days away, she’s already figured out her look for the evening, courtesy of Bayley and Naomi. Biting on her bottom lip, she finds her fingers moving across his chest. “I—I got my dress.” He makes a sound followed up with his mouth moving to her neck. “I think—I think you’ll like it.”

She struggles to keep her eyes open when he starts kissing on her wet skin. “I like everything you wear.” She smiles. “You thought about what you want for your birthday?”

 Once again, it’s hard to talk with him touching her like this. “No, cause I don’t–”

He chuckles against her. “Still on that shit, I see.” And before she can push him on that, he informs with all of the textbook coyness, “it’s alright, I’ve got it figured out.”

That makes her push lightly on his chest, to force his gaze on her. “What does that mean?”

“You’ll see.” His words are intentionally vague and don’t manage to answer her question. It’s expected, not entirely out of character for him, but still a bit irritating. 

She sighs. The last thing she wants is for this man to go out of his way for her more than he already has. “Roman…

“Solana, I’ve got you in my arms. Half naked.” His eyes take on a dark, lustful glint as he focuses on her mouth. “I really don’t feel like talking, baby….”

He brings his lips back onto hers, but it’s hard to get too into the kiss when her mind is so focused on one little word. 

Baby….

A nickname he seems to use with her more and more, the increasing usage doing nothing for the butterflies every time he calls her as such. But this time, this time the butterflies are for something more, something different.

Something she’s not even sure she should be telling him right now when they haven’t even consummated their marriage. 

It doesn’t stop her from saying his name, her tone serious enough to alert him that she has something to say.

“Roman….” He lifts his head, gaze focused on her, and Solana finds herself momentarily captivated by him. He’s so handsome. So attractive. The embodiment of strength. In so many different ways. Licking her lips, it falls out almost accidentally but also with all of the determination. “I’m going to give you an heir.”

His expression falters only for a second. He’s so good at maintaining composure at all times that it takes her off guard. His voice is lowered. “Solana, I told you, I’ll handle—”

“I know, but—but, it’s not because of that.” And maybe a part of it is, maybe she feels guilty that she’s failing to do the one thing he agreed to marry her for. Maybe it’s out of her trauma. Maybe it’s a sense of obligation. Whatever the potential contributors, there’s no denying the largest chunk comes from a place of pure individualistic want. “I never thought that I could, but….but I can.” This part she knows to be true. Solana never envisioned a life for herself where she could withstand the touch of a man, the desire to have a man touch her. The ability to be intimate. But Roman has changed all that. “I know I can, so I will.” When he says nothing, she adds on, starting to feel a bit unsure of herself. “And we don’t have to now, per se, but….we will. I—I want to do that for you.”

For us.

He still says nothing, but Solana can see there’s a million thoughts floating through her head. She’s prepared for him to push back, to maybe chastise her or scold her for whatever reason. In her experience, men have never really needed solid reasons to be upset with her.

He does none of that though.

Instead, she seems something gleam in his brown eyes, something she can’t name but feels is eerily similar to what she feels whenever she looks at him.

“Non sei quello che mi aspettavo.” Solana has no idea what he’s saying, but with the way he holds her, the way he hikes her higher onto his waist so she’s almost looking down at him, wet hands moving to his face, she doesn’t really care. Doesn’t really need to know. “Ma credo che tu sia esattamente quello di cui ho bisogno…."

—----------

“Are you sure this is going to work?”

Xavier smiles at the hint of nervousness in his son’s voice. Any other time, he’d scold him for weakness. But when plotting against the Bloodline, especially Roman Reigns, one can never be too careful.

“Not necessarily, but I do know your sister. She’s weak. Blinded by love.” Just saying the word leaves a bitter taste on the tip of his tongue. “Your mother fed her that shit, and now she holds onto it. It’s how I know she won’t let him do anything.”

Wes’s dark gaze rakes over his father’s still recovering state. “And yet he still put us both in the hospital.”

Xavier glares, voice icy. He hates being reminded of failure. “Watch it, son.”

We looks away, shaking his head and crossing his arms over his body. “I just think there is another way—”

“Have you heard from your sister? Found a way to get into contact with her without going through Reins?” Xavier already knows the answer but wants his son to recognize the stupidity of his stance. “This is the only way, and it’ll work. Trust me.”

Wes is still quiet, but Xavier is unbothered. He’s instead focused on his phone that vibrates three times, his lock screen showing a set of messages from an unknown number. And it’s in reading the messages that his day goes from good to so much fucking better.

“Well, I’ll be damned….” 

Wes notices the change in his father’s mood and gestures with his chin. “Who is it?”

“Not sure.” He reaches the phone to his son. “But, we’re definitely going to find out.”

And it’s when reading the text that Wes also smiles, the same wicked scheming oscillating in his father’s head traveling over to him. 

“Got you now, you little bitch….” Wes reads over the words once more, basking in the relief and potential this new development will provide.

Unknown: I believe we may have a mutual problem that needs to be….taken care of.

Unknown: Your daughter. Solana.

Unknown: Let’s meet.

—----------

translation: “you’re not what i expected, but i think you’re exactly what i need.”

[norrisleclercf1]

Day 6 of 25 Days of Christmas: Taking niece/nephew to meet Santa

Pairing: Carlos Sainz x Reader

Words: 784

Rating: PG

Warnings: None, Fluff

"Are you sure you're okay with doing this, Carlos?" His sister stood before him, bouncing his niece, who was pouting that her mother couldn't take her to meet Santa Claus. Of course, we were going shopping anyway, and I think it would be fun; what do you think, pequeña?" Carlos asked, reaching out and pinching her cheek, which made her giggle happily. She then remembered she was supposed to be upset and went back to pouting.

His sister laughs and bounces her one last time before hanging her over, kicking her feet little feet as Carlos chuckles, little Isla clinging to him now. "Byeeee, you will be a good girl for Uncle Los and Aunt Y/n. You understand me," her mother says. Isla waves bye before looking at Carlos with her wide hazel eyes. "Y/n?" She asks softly, and Carlos chuckles and kisses her cheeks. "In the kitchen, go," He says, letting her down, watching as she rushes off and hearing a squeal and your laughter.

"Is that my favorite niece staying here with us today?" you ask as Isla hugs your leg. Carlos comes around the corner and smiles brightly. We're taking her to meet Santa Claus," Carlos explains, and you gasp, looking down. Are you meeting Santa Claus today?" you ask, being so happy you're allowed to do this. Isla nods happily and looks up at you with her big eyes.

"Yes," she squeaks, and you coo softly. You quickly bend down, pick her up, and hold her close. "Y/n, will you meet Santa Claus with me?" She whispers, and you turn and nod your head. "Of course, Uncle Los and I will meet him with you," she giggles and clings to you as you smile. "Hey, why don't you go play while Uncle Los and I talk?" You ask, and Isla nods, her little legs kicking already, as you let her go and watch her run to the living room.

"Why are we taking her to Santa? That is the thing parents should do; isn't it important? I don't know, milestone," You ask, and Carlos bites back a snort. "Y/n, she's four; she's met Santa before, just this year, her mom can't, so she's asked us," You calm down; you and Carlos have only been dating a year or so, but Isla took to you quiet quickly and has consistently called you Aunt Y/n.

"Okay, so we just get a picture with Santa and move on with our holiday shopping?" You ask gently as Isla comes running back with Pinon, following her bouncing as she stops. "Uncle Los, I drew you and Santa; you both wear red suits," She smiles brightly, and Carlos bends down, smiling. "Thank you, baby. Why don't you go draw Y/n a picture as well," Kissing her forehead, Isla nods and runs off, Pinon bouncing after her, making you giggle; that crackhead of a dog loved her and always followed her around.

"So, wanna go meet Santa?" He asks, and you roll your eyes.

"It's Rudolph, Uncle Los, it's Rudolph," Isla tugs on Carlos's shirt, pointing at the reindeer next to Santa Claus. "Yes, I see, wanna feed him a carrot?" He asks, and you smile, holding her little coat. "Aunt Y/n, you help me?" She asks, leaning into your leg, and you look down, smiling. "I'd love to, sugar." You smile, making Isla squeal as you two move closer to the front.

"Would you like a carrot?" The lady asks, smiling brightly as Isla nods her head and gladly accepts the carrot. Isla walks up but stops getting nervous. "Here, baby," you say, leaning down, picking her up and holding her close. "Want me to feed him?" You ask, to which she nods, and you gladly take the carrot, "Bet his nose," You say, and Isla gently reaches her little hand out and giggles when the reindeer licks her tongue.

"Okay, watch," you slowly hand out the carrot as the reindeer accepts it and starts munching on it, making Isla squeal happily and kick her little legs. "Wanna try?" And hand her another carrot that she quickly holds out and watches the animal devour it. "Ready for your picture?" You ask, and she nods her head quickly. As you slowly sit her down, she rushes towards Santa; Carlos immediately pulls his phone out, snapping tons of photos.

"Uncle Los, Aunt Y/n, come," she whines, and you can't help but laugh and move as Carlos hands off his phone, smiling as you two take a photo. "What a cute family," one of the older women whispers, making Carlos smile as he says thank you and scrolls through the pictures.

Yeah, he wouldn't mind having a mini-you around.

[tribbetherium]

Formed from the fusion of East Nodera and North Ecatoria, Mesoterra in the Middle Temperocene is home to the descendants of the various species that once called these ancient landmasses home. Of East Nodera, its wildlife are survived by the threepeaked tricorn, an alpine grazer that is Mesoterra's only extant ungulope, and the pinguiphants, semi-aquatic walkabies adapted to forage on Mesoterra's shores.

But small, offshore isles off the coast of Mesoterra harbor some unusual holdovers from an older age. And one such isle is Isla Easnodus on the southwestern coast, where, hidden from the rest of the world, a tiny remnant of its Therocene past continues to linger.

The banded forest streewi (Microstruthiomys gymnorrhinus) is a late-surviving relic of the hamstriches: walkabies adapted for running on open ground. These would eventually disappear as the continents merged into mainland Mesoterra, with their niche more or less being taken over by the podotheres, another cursorial bipedal clade that come to dominate Mesoterra's ecosystem, and later spread far and wide as far as Arcuterra and Ecatoria. On the mainland, the walkabies that did survive were ones that took to the water to become the pinguiphants, but on these offshore islands, the hamstriches shrank down to a miniscule size of less than four kilograms at most, in an isolated environment, giving rise to the streewis.

The banded forest streewi dwells on the forest floors of the island's tropical forests, formed from seeds that were carried over from the droppings of ratbats and pterodents. A small, generalized omnivore, it feeds on fruit, seeds and small invertebrates, and lives in small social groups, consisting of one or two males and up to a dozen females. Mature males are distinguished by their bold, striking markings and broght red bare patches on their faces which they use for social display and to show off to potential mates. Like most walkabies they possess elongated snouts, which, while not as dexterous and pronounced as in rhinocheirids, are still useful tools for foraging for food in the forest floor and undergrowth.

While facing threats from the sky, in the form of predatory ratbats, the banded forest streewi has no enemies on land. As such, their primary defensive strategy is to huddle in groups when startled, seeking shelter underneath vegetation to hide in their shade from the view of aerial hunters. With their sole danger coming from above, they came to forage in small, tight groups, with individuals taking turns to keep watch and alert the group at any sign of an airborne predator.

Female streewis give birth to a single offspring at a time, after a gestation period of about four months. The young are born fully-furred and open-eyed, and remain with their mothers for up to a year at most, weaning at six weeks but continuing to follow her even afterward, learning to forage and take shelter from danger by watching from example. With few enemies and a smaller land space, they grow slowly and breed infrequently, once every two or three years depending on climate and food availability.

----------

[islamgzacc4]

اقتلونا بس طعمونا 💔

Kill us but feed us💔

[diazsdimples]

Eddie almost panics when he walks into the nursey and Isla isn’t in her crib.

His heart pounds in his chest as he slowly approaches the empty crib, scanning the room for signs of his missing daughter. His ears strain, listening out for tiny coos or a cry. Anything!

There’s a tiny mewl, and Eddie stops in his tracks, heart in his mouth.

“Isla, baby, that you?”

Another pathetic mew, this one a little louder and more insistent.

Eddie rushes to the edge of the crib and his brain screeches to a halt.

There, surrounded by Isla’s sleepsack, is a miniscule, raggedy looking tabby kitten. Her eyes barely open, tiny white paws opening and closing in the air around her as her head moves to and fro, looking for her mother.

Protective instincts flare up inside Eddie, like a surge of fire through his blood, and he doesn’t even have to think before he’s shifting, bones and muscles shrinking, rearranging, sleek black fur pushing through his skin, teeth sharpening into points. He blinks and his eyesight sharpens, sniffs and his keen nose is filled with the scent of helpless newborn.

He knows this is his daughter. None of them were expecting Isla to shift this early – Christopher had been over a year old before Shannon had woken to find a little calico kitten wobbling into their shared room – but Buck had apparently presented just before he’d turned 3 months old. Maybe Isla takes after him.

Gracefully leaping into the crib, Eddie lands on all four paws and pads over to his kitten. She lets out another high-pitched cry, and Eddie licks over her head and ears, soothing her. A mrrow rumbles deep in his chest and he gently closes his mouth over the scruff of her neck, lifting her fragile body off the mattress.

Get to Shannon. Get kitten milk. Show Buck kitten.

Eddie squeezes through the bars of Isla’s crib and lands seamlessly on the floor. Isla cries out an indignant wail at the sudden jolt and Eddie chirps reassuringly, letting her know she’s safe.

His tail swishes proudly as he trots down the hallway, Isla swinging from his mouth. His nose is filled with the warm, comforting scent of her fur, and a loud purr erupts from his chest.

Reaching their bedroom door, Eddie nudges it open with his head and pads into the middle of the room. Shannon and Buck are still in bed, a tangled mass of limbs that make it difficult for Eddie to tell where one begins and the other ends. Letting out a loud yowl, Eddie announces his presence.

Bleary-eyed with hair resembling a bird’s nest, Shannon peers over the edge of the bed.

“Eddie? Whassgoingon?”

“Mrrrow!!” Look at our baby!

Shannon squints, clearly not comprehending the situation with her sleep-addled brain. Eddie sighs heavily, his whole body heaving with it, and picks up Isla once again, bounding onto the bed and landing square on Shannon’s chest. He drops the kitten on her breastbone and sits back, tail swishing as he waits for her to get the picture.

Beside her, Buck stirs, a hand automatically coming up to pet through Eddie’s fur. He brrrps happily, headbutting Buck’s hand and licking the tips of his fingers.

“Eddie, what’s – is this Isla?”

Delighted that she’s finally gotten there, Eddie nudges against her cheek with the top of her head and licks Isla’s fur. He paws at the top of her shirt and yowls, trying to draw her attention to the way Isla’s nuzzling at her, searching.

Feed kitten!

Shannon lifts him off her, dumping him onto Buck’s chest instead.

“Yeah yeah, I’m getting there. I’m just – this is so early for her to shift! It’s a bit of a shock.”

One of Buck’s arms circle around Eddie’s middle, keeping him pinned against his chest. “Maybe she’s like me,” he yawns as he stretches to slip his fingers through his daughter’s silky fur. “She looks kinda like Maddie when we were little.”

Shannon lifts the kitten into her hands, scrutinising her markings. Isla squeaks pathetically, her little needle-like claws digging into Shannon’s fingers.

“Either way, she’s hungry as hell.”

And with that, Shannon shifts seamlessly into her beautiful, tortoiseshell form. She chirps happily and Isla scrambles forward, latching onto Shannon with gusto and makes hurried biscuits into her fur.

“I feel like I’m the odd one out here,” Buck remarks as he scritches beneath Eddie’s chin. Eddie’s purring rachets up a notch and he rubs himself happily against Buck’s fingers before melting against him, stretching his whole body across his partner. He licks at Buck’s chin, enjoying how his morning scruff feels beneath his tongue.

As much as Eddie loves being a cat, he also really wants to kiss his boyfriend. Relaxing his body, Eddie lets himself shift back, his bones popping as they lengthen, fur retreating back within his skin, the hair on his head growing until it’s back to his usual, human length.

Beneath him, Buck lets out a strangled noise as Eddie’s weight increases markedly.

“I thought we had a rule about shifting while on top of each other,” he gasps as he pushes Eddie off him.

Grinning cheekily, Eddie leans over to kiss him sweetly. “I would apologise but I think we both know I’m not that sorry.”

“Little shit,” Buck grumbles, and Eddie slaps a hand over his mouth.

“Language!” he scolds as Shannon looks up at them with big, amber eyes, and lets out a low, warning growl. “Not in front of little ears.”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry!” Buck apologises, petting through Shannon’s fur. “Gosh this is so crazy! I haven’t seen anyone shift this young. I wonder what she’s going to look like as she gets older?”

Eddie rests his head on Buck’s chest, sighing happily as he looks over at his wife and their daughter.

“I don’t know, but I’m so excited to watch her grow.” He kisses Buck’s knuckles, eyes never leaving his little family. “Our baby girl.”

“Yeah,” Buck agrees, his voice a little tight, though he’s holding back tears. “Our baby.”