He smirked, running his eyes over her generous curves. When he met her gaze, it was with a dark look that had nothing to do with their casual conversation
"I'll be the judge of that
Author's Note: the smut is ludicrous and the back and forth between the two was very fun to write. Thats all i can say. Hope it was worth the LOOOOONG (had alot of schoolwork) wait.
Content Warning: SMUT with a side of buildup and story
-Comment or message me if you want to be added for the next part
Word Count: 5753
Link to Part 1
Link to Part 2
Thirty days of training her. Thirty days of her showing up earlier, staying later, pushing harder just to prove him wrong. Thirty days of…being around her. More time with her than he’d ever get under normal circumstances.
The thought sent a jolt of excitement through his stomach, though he would never admit that the sight of her shapely figure and her sassy remarks was something he looked forward to.
He looked toward the door one more time, imagining the determined glare she’d given him right before walking out. A slow smile tugged at his mouth.
He hadn’t expected her to call his bluff. But since she had confidently accepted it, he had no other choice but to make the next 30 days challenging for her.
He was excited. Actually excited. He knew this bet was going to be fun for him, and he couldn’t wait.
The next day
Makenzie’s phone exploded with noise, vibrating relentlessly across her nightstand. She groaned into her pillow, blindly slapping around for it. Her fingertips finally found the phone and squinted at the overly bright screen.
Roman Reigns is calling her at 6 am. Her entire soul groaned with annoyance. Who else had the audacity to call her at six in the morning? She considered not answering and pretending she slept through it, but then she remembered the bet and that smug look on his face when she actually agreed to it.
Makenzie stabbed the answer button and held it to her ear.
“What,” she snapped, voice raspy and full of sleep.
Roman’s deep voice came through the phone. “Good morning to you too.”
Makenzie rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling in disbelief. “Roman, there is no reason to be calling anyone at six in the morning unless there's an emergency.”
“It’s day one of the bet we need to start strong.”
Makenzie threw an arm over her eyes, contemplating every life choice that led her to agreeing to a bet with a man who had no issue with waking people before sunrise.
“I hate you.”
“I know. Make sure you put on some running shoes. We're doing cardio in the park.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“You’re gonna lose the bet already,” Roman chuckled, way too awake.
She pulled the phone away from her ear and glared at the screen like it was personally responsible for her suffering. She whispered to herself, “I’m actually going to kill him.”
Then she put the phone back. “Fine,” she grumbled. “Give me thirty minutes.”
She hung up before he could say something else smug.
For a moment she lay there, staring at the ceiling, letting the irritation simmer, bubbling right underneath her determination.
Then she muttered, “He’s lucky I'm competitive,” and dragged herself out of bed.
Roman spotted her the moment she stepped out of her car.
Makenzie looked like she had clawed her way out of bed five minutes ago. Her hair was thrown into a barely secure ponytail, her jacket was half-zipped, and her expression could have curdled milk.
Roman’s lips twitched.
She trudged toward him with the slow, stiff steps of someone whose soul hadn’t caught up with their body yet.
“Wow,” he called out, folding his arms over his chest as she approached. “Someone’s in a great mood.”
Makenzie shot him a lethal look, eyes half-open but full of warning. “Roman. I swear. If you say one more cheerful thing.”
He held up his hands in surrender, but the grin stayed. “You made it. I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. I’m still debating turning around.”
He eyed her up and down sleepy scowl, messy hair, stubborn posture, and felt a little jolt of something warm in his chest. She looked exhausted, annoyed, but still here.
Exactly what he’d hoped for.
“Honestly?” Roman said, lowering his voice a little. “I didn’t think you’d show.”
Makenzie’s glare sharpened. “I said I’d win the bet. I’m not giving you the satisfaction of being right this early.”
Roman laughed under his breath. God, she was competitive. It made the corner of his mouth kick up in a way he couldn’t fight.
He rocked back on his heels, pretending to consider her like a coach assessing an athlete. “Well, since you’re clearly thrilled to be here, we should start with an easy mile. When we finish, we’ll grab breakfast and go over the rest of the rules.”
She squinted at him. “Define ‘easy’ and ‘rules’”
“Not easy for you,” he said casually. “Just easy for me. And I wanna clarify some rules so you're not going through any loopholes on day 29.”
Makenzie inhaled sharply, as if restraining the urge to throw her shoe at him.
He stepped closer, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Don’t worry, Makenzie. By the end of today, you’ll be wide awake.”
She muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like a threat.
Roman chuckled, nodding toward the path. “Alright. Let’s get this started before your mood gets any worse.”
But as she brushed past him, he caught her determination beneath all the irritation, and he couldn’t help the thought that flickered through him:
This is going to be fun.
Makenzie stumbled to a stop near the park bench, bent forward, hands braced on her knees, as she gasped, as if she’d just escaped a burning building.
“Roman,” she wheezed, “I swear on everything I love you’re evil.”
Roman jogged up behind her, barely breathing hard. Not even a bead of sweat on him. He stopped beside her, hands on his hips, perfectly steady.
“Come on,” he said lightly. “That was barely a mile.”
Makenzie looked up at him, betrayed. “Barely? Barely?! Roman, I saw my ancestors. I think one of them waved.”
He laughed. Not a quiet chuckle either. A full, genuine laugh that broke through whatever serious coach persona he usually tried to maintain. It didn’t match the intense, hyper-disciplined version of him she was used to.
For a second, she forgot she was supposed to be mad.
Then she remembered.
She glared. “You think this is funny?”
“Oh, absolutely,” he said without hesitation. “You should’ve seen your face at the halfway point. I wasn’t sure if you were going to pass out or fight me.”
“Both,” she snapped, “Simultaneously.”
Roman sat beside her, still maddeningly composed. “Well, good news. You survived Day One. Kind of.”
She shot him a death glare from the side. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Of course I am. Watching you try not to complain during cardio is honestly inspiring.”
She threw her head back against the bench with a groan. “I’m complaining internally.”
“I know. I can hear it from here.”
Makenzie flipped him off weakly without lifting her head. Roman snorted.
After a moment, he nudged her calf with his shoe. “Come on. Breakfast. I’m buying.”
She sat up, intrigued, “Breakfast where?”
“Little café down the street,” he said, standing and offering her a hand. “And while we eat, we can talk about the rest of the rules.”
Makenzie groaned again. “Can’t you just yell them at me while I lie here and die?”
“Nope. Gotta hear them while conscious. Because once we set them, there's no backing out.”
“I’m barely conscious.”
He smirked. “Then try harder.”
She slapped her hand into his, letting him pull her up, though she grumbled the entire short walk down the street.
Makenzie had barely taken two sips of her water when Roman leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms with a level of confidence that should’ve been illegal.
“Alright,” he said, “now we get to the fun part.”
Makenzie narrowed her eyes. “Fun for who?”
Roman didn’t answer. He just gave that slow, annoying smirk.
“Rule number one, no more sweet treats, only eating clean from here on out.”
“You want me to survive off of unseasoned chicken and broccoli for 30 days?”
Roman ignored her complaint, “Rule number two, no complaining when I push you in class or in our solo sessions.”
“Define complaining.”
“Something you’re really good at”
Mackenzie rolled her eyes
“Not off to a good start. Any complaining about workouts, food, or the rules counts as a strike.”
“You cannot be serious.”
Roman nodded calmly
“Then what am I supposed to do instead?”
Roman glanced out the café window for a moment, watching a few early morning joggers pass by on the sidewalk. He looked almost thoughtful, like he was genuinely considering the question.
Then he turned back to her.
“Maybe appreciate and thank me for taking time out of my day to make sure you’re ready for your little birthday photoshoot when it comes around.”
Mackenzie blinked. “My little birthday photoshoot”
Roman shrugged slightly. “That’s what started this whole thing, isn’t it?”
Her eyes narrowed further. “You say that like it’s ridiculous.”
“I didn’t say ridiculous.”
“You implied ridiculous.”
Makenzie pointed a finger at him across the table. “For the record, it’s not just a ‘little photoshoot’. It’s planned.”
“How planned?”
“There’s a location.”
Roman nodded slowly. “Very official.”
“An outfit.”
“Impressive.”
“And a photographer.”
“Oh, a photographer.”
Makenzie crossed her arms.
“Yes.”
He leaned back in the booth, clearly entertained now.
“So this is a full production.”
Makenzie sighed.
“You’re being annoying on purpose.”
“Oooh, was that a complaint? Already breaking the rules, and I’m not even finished.” His eyes lit with amusement.
“There’s more??”
“Last one, daily check-ins. You check in with me every day,” Roman explained calmly. “Workout completed. Meals on track. No cheating.”
Her eyebrows shot up.
“So basically, you're now my personal trainer slash parole officer.”
“Yea you need supervision. If I just told you to get up at 6 am and go for a run, would you have done it?”
Makenzie opened her mouth. Then paused. Because she knew the honest answer, she probably would have hit snooze.
Roman watched the realization happen on her face.
Makenzie tried to think of a comeback, something sarcastic or clever to throw back at him, but nothing came out.
Roman lifted his eyebrows slightly.
“Exactly,” he said
“Let’s talk consequences.”
Makenzie stiffened like she was preparing for battle. “Okay. Hit me.”
He steepled his fingers, gaze locked on hers with a heat that made her shift in her seat.
“If you lose this bet,” he said calmly, “you owe me an entire week of training exactly the way I say. No backtalk, no shortcuts, no eye-rolling.”
Makenzie gasped. “Eye-rolling is a natural human response to stupidity.”
Roman continued, undeterred, “and you do every workout exactly the way I lay it out. Full intensity. No complaining.”
Makenzie folded her arms. “You want me to train with you for a week like some sort of drill sergeant? That’s the punishment?”
He raised a brow. “Punishment? I never used that word. But if the shoe fits.”
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping just a little.
“And if you win, you get a reward.”
Makenzie froze.
Her pulse kicked. She tried to swallow casually and failed.
“A reward,” she echoed. “Like what?”
Roman pretended to think, tapping his finger on the table. “Whatever you want.”
Makenzie blinked. “Anything?”
“As long as it’s reasonable.”
She leaned in. “Define reasonable.”
He gave her a look. “Makenzie.”
She grinned slowly. “Okay, okay. So I get to choose any reasonable reward.”
“Yes,” he confirmed. “And I’ll follow through. No backing out. No arguing.”
She tilted her head, studying him. He looked confident. Too confident.
Roman slid his chair back slightly, resting his forearms on the edge of the table. “So that’s it. Consequences. Rewards. Terms are clear.”
Makenzie stared at him, jaw set, eyes sharp. “Clear as hell.”
“Then we should seal it,” he said, extending his hand across the table.
Makenzie blinked. “A handshake? Seriously?”
“It’s a bet,” he said simply. “A serious one. And you’re about to lose it, so yes, shake my hand.”
Her eyes narrowed at the challenge. The nerve. The absolute, unfiltered confidence in his voice made her blood heat.
She leaned forward slowly, deliberately. Close enough for him to see the defiance burning in her eyes.
Their hands met halfway across the booth.
Roman’s grip was firm, Makenzie tightened her grip back just as confidently, refusing to let him feel like he had any advantage.
They held the handshake for a second longer than necessary.
Neither of them pulling away first.
Roman gave a small nod.
“Deal.”
Makenzie released his hand and leaned back in the seat.
“Deal,” she repeated.
DAY 5
By Day Five, Roman knew something had shifted.
Makenzie wasn’t just showing up anymore, she was locked in.
She finished her last set with a sharp exhale, hands braced on her thighs, sweat darkening the fabric of her top. Her muscles trembled, but she didn’t complain. Not once.
Roman checked the time on his watch, then looked back at her slowly.
“Well,” he said, measured, “that’s new.”
Makenzie straightened, brushing a damp curl back from her face. “What?”
“You didn’t argue. You didn’t stall. You didn’t try to negotiate your way out of the last two reps.”
She lifted her chin. “You have 25 more days, then I’m back to my normal self.”
His mouth curved slightly. “Oh, I can’t wait to hear what you’ve been holding back.”
His quiet chuckle carried farther than usual. Because the gym was empty, no music playing. No other trainers shouting instructions. No weights clanging from other racks. Just the faint hum of the overhead lights and the soft echo of their voices bouncing off the mirrors and rubber flooring.
Roman stood just close enough to be intrusive, but not touching. The air between them felt tight.
“Today,” he said calmly, “you get a reward.”
Makenzie crossed her arms. “This feels suspiciously like a trap.”
He smirked. “Relax. You’re not in trouble.”
He paused deliberately before continuing.
“You get the next ten minutes however you want them. Your pace. Your choice. No coaching.”
That caught her off guard.
She stared at him. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious.”
She studied his face, searching for a catch. “And you’re not going to say anything?”
Roman leaned back against the rack, folding his arms. “I’ll watch.”
Her breath hitched, annoyed at herself for it.
“Fine,” she said, turning away before he could read her expression. “Then I’m stretching.”
“Smart,” he said. “Recovery matters.”
She dropped into a kneeling lunge stretch on the mat, slow and deliberate, painfully aware of his eyes on her reflection in the mirror. Not predatory. Not inappropriate.
Focused. Intent.
She glanced up and caught his gaze in the mirror.
“Enjoying the view?” she challenged.
Roman didn’t look away. “I’m enjoying the discipline.”
That sent a ripple straight through her.
Roman told himself he was just doing his job.But then she shifted deeper into the stretch and winced slightly.Roman noticed immediately.
“You’re compensating,” he said.
Makenzie glanced up at him, slightly irritated. “I’m stretching.”
“You’re avoiding the tight side,” he corrected.
She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. “Okay, Professor. Then enlighten me.”
Roman hesitated.
Normally, he’d just explain it verbally.
But today, something about the way she was looking at him, challenging, stubborn, slightly breathless from the workout, made the distance between them feel strange.
Too formal.
Too controlled.
He stepped closer before he could talk himself out of it. He moved behind her, guiding her out of the lunge and into a downward dog position. His palms pressed firmly against her hips, adjusting her form with expert precision, but his fingers lingered, tracing the dip of her waist and the swell of her ass in a way that was anything but professional.
The fabric of her shorts felt thin under his touch, and she felt a rush of warmth between her legs as he teased her with those sly caresses, his thumbs digging into the tense muscles of her hamstrings.
“You're holding tension right here,” he whispered, and she arched back instinctively, her body responding to his nearness.
The memory of their previous encounters flooded her mind the way he'd had her in this very position before, vulnerable and eager, and she couldn't help but remind him with a breathy laugh, “We've been here before, haven't we?”
The moment his hands were on her form, guiding her. He realized just how thin the line of professionalism really was
And how easy it would be to step over it.
He guided her smoothly onto her back, her legs spreading wide above her head as he pinned her in place with gentle but unyielding pressure, his hands massaging the insides of her thighs with deliberate strokes.
Roman's focus was laser-sharp on the curves of her body, his thumbs working deep into the knots of muscle, relieving the tension while igniting a new kind of ache.
She gasped as his fingers ventured perilously close to her pussy, the heat building there like a coiled spring, her folds already slick with arousal that she could feel dampening the seam of her shorts. The friction of his touch was exquisite, each pass of his knuckles sending jolts of pleasure through her core, her breath coming in shallow pants as she arched toward him, craving more.
But then he pulled away abruptly, delivering a sharp smack to her ass that made her jolt and let out a surprised moan. He forced himself to stand, creating space before the moment could shift into something else.
“That's enough stretching for now,” he said with a chuckle, his voice laced with that authoritative edge.
Makenzie sat up, confused, “What the fuck was that Roman?”
“That was me helping you stretch,” he said, shrugging his shoulders as if it had been the most normal thing in the world. “You need to do more of it, you feel very tight.”
“Oh, I’m tight?” she shot back, folding her arms as she pushed herself up from the mat. “That’s your professional assessment?”
Roman chuckled, unfazed. “Extremely.”
She stepped a little closer, clearly not buying his casual tone. “You’re telling me you just had to come over and rub all between my legs because I’m ‘tight’.”
Roman lifted his hands in mock surrender, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “Correcting form is literally my job.”
Makenzie stared at him for a long second, trying to decide whether he was being serious or deliberately messing with her.
“You enjoyed that,” she accused. “I think it reminded you of the first time we had sex,” she said, taking a step closer to him. “And I remember you definitely enjoyed that.”
Her words hung in the air, charged and raw, as she watched the conflict play across his features, his hand twitching at his side as if he were fighting the instinct to reach for her again, and he was losing the fight.
“You’re welcome, by the way,” he said, trying to keep his voice casual. “That stretch probably just saved you from hobbling around tomorrow.”
Mackenzie rolled her eyes, “Why should I thank you for a job half-done. At least last time I got to cum.”
Roman's gaze locked onto hers instantly, the twitch in his hand turning into a deliberate flex of his fingers, as if weighing the consequences of what they both craved. The air between them thickened, every breath shared feeling like a surrender, and for a second, he hesitated, his jaw tightening with the effort to hold back. But the raw hunger in Makenzie's eyes, the way her lips parted slightly in silent invitation, shattered his resolve.
“Damn it, Makenzie,”
With his hand wrapped roughly around her wrist, he quickly led her down the dimly lit corridor towards his office.
Once inside, he pressed her against the door, his body pinning hers in a rush of heat and muscle, his lips crashing onto hers in a passionate kiss that allowed all the pent-up frustration and forbidden memories to explode between them. His tongue delved deep, tasting the salt of her sweat and the sweetness of her mouth, while his hands roamed greedily over her curves, stripping away her tank top with urgent tugs.
The fabric slid off, exposing her full breast, nipples hardening into tight peaks under his intense gaze. He paused to cup one, his thumb circling the sensitive bud until she gasped.
“Let this be another reward for all of your hard work.”
“Do I get to pick the position?” Makenzie let out breathlessly.
For a split second, Roman just looked at her. Then he let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.
“I’ll surprise you.”
Her pussy throbbed with anticipation, wetness seeping through her shorts as he started to trail his lips down her neck, nipping at the tender skin.
He worked her shorts down next, the cool air hitting her bare skin and making her shiver as he exposed her completely, her arousal now evident in the glistening folds of her pussy
Roman's dick strained against his own pants, a hard ridge that she could feel pressing against her thigh, and she reached for it instinctively, but he grabbed her hips and spun her around, pushing her towards the desk in the middle of the room. With a firm hand on her back, he had her breast pressed against the coolness of the wood. The vulnerability of the position made her heart race.
He stepped back for a moment, his eyes drinking in the sight of her pussy lips swollen and wet, begging for attention, her body a canvas of brown skin and quivering muscles. He shed his clothes, his thick dick springing free, veins bulging along its length as he stroked it once, the head already slick with pre-cum.
Positioning himself behind her, the tip of his dick brushed against her entrance, teasing her with its hardness, and she pushed back eagerly, her voice a desperate whisper. “Please, Roman, don't make me wait.”
He thrust into her slowly at first, savoring the way her tight, wet pussy enveloped him, inch by inch, the friction hot and unrelenting. Her inner walls clenched around his shaft, the sensation overwhelming as he filled her completely, stretching her in the most delicious way.
Makenzie cried out, a mix of pleasure and relief, her fingers digging into the desk as he began to move, each thrust deep and deliberate, his hips slapping against her ass with a rhythmic force that echoed in the small room. The smell of their sex filled the air, mingling with the sound of her moans and his grunts, every slide of his dick inside her sending waves of ecstasy through her body.
Each thrust hit that perfect spot inside her, the head of his thick shaft grinding against her G-spot with unyielding force, sending shockwaves of pleasure radiating through her core. Her pussy clenched around him greedily, the wet, squelching sounds of their fucking filling the office like a carnal symphony, her juices coating his length and trickling down her thighs.
He leaned over her, his breath hot and ragged against her ear, “ You think I don't remember how you screamed my name last time? How you clenched around me like you couldn't get enough?"
His words poured out in a heated rush, each one laced with the memory of their night together.
"God, you're so tight, Makenzie so fucking perfect," he rasped, his thrusts getting deeper and deeper.
Makenzie's moans escalated into desperate, animalistic cries, her body trembling on the brink of release as the pressure built like a storm about to break. Her breast pressed hard against the cool desk, nipples scraping the surface with each forceful slam of his hips, the friction adding another layer of exquisite torment. She could feel every vein on his throbbing dick pulsing inside her, stretching her walls to their limit, the fullness so intense it bordered on pain, yet it only fueled her hunger.
Sweat slicked their skin, mixing with the scent of sex that hung heavy in the air, and she arched her back further, pushing her ass against him to meet his rhythm. “Fuck, Roman, don't stop,” she gasped.
His balls slapped against her swollen folds with each deep penetration, the sound wet and obscene, amplifying the heat coiling in her belly until she was seconds away from shattering, her pussy gripping him like a vice, ready to milk every drop from his pulsing shaft.
Just as the wave crested and Makenzie's orgasm threatened to crash over her, Roman pulled out abruptly, his dick glistening with her arousal as it slipped free from her quivering pussy with a lewd, sucking pop. She let out a frustrated wail, her body left empty and aching, the sudden void making her clench around nothing, desperate for the fullness he'd so cruelly denied.
“What the fuck, Roman?” she gasped, her voice ragged and edged with fury, her hips bucking involuntarily as if seeking the friction he'd so cruelly withdrawn.
“Not yet Makenzie,” he muttered.
Before she could protest further, Roman dropped to his knees behind her, his hands gripping her hips to hold her in place as he buried his face between her thighs. His tongue darted out, lapping at her soaked folds with long, deliberate strokes that sent shivers up her spine, tasting the sweetness of her arousal.
“Taste just as good as I remember,” he murmured against her skin, his breath cool on her overheated flesh, the vibrations of his words making her twitch. He delved deeper, his tongue plunging into her entrance, fucking her with it in slow, teasing motions that mimicked the thrusts of his dick, curling upward to hit that sensitive spot inside.
Makenzie's hands scrambled for something to hold on to. The wet slurping sounds of his mouth on her pussy filling the air. He sucked on her clit next, pulling it between his lips and flicking it relentlessly with the tip of his tongue, the pressure building again but at a torturously gradual pace.
“I can taste how fucking wet you are for me” he whispered, his words muffled against her flesh. “But you're not coming until I let you.”
“You really like bossing me around,” she said over he shoulder.
“What did I say about backtalk,” he said as his hand came down hard on her ass with a sharp smack that echoed through the room, the sting radiating across her cheek and making her jolt forward. “Your gonna cum, just when I say so.” He spanked her again, lighter this time, savoring the way her body shuddered, her pussy lips still swollen and leaking, begging for more.
As Roman's mouth worked its magic, Makenzie's body responded with unrestrained need, her hips bucking involuntarily against his face, grinding her pussy into his eager tongue. The dual sensations of his lips sucking and his beard scraping her inner thighs created a delicious contrast, the roughness heightening the softness of his licks, making her thighs quiver uncontrollably.
He alternated between broad, flat strokes that covered her entire slit and precise, pointed flicks that targeted her clit, each one drawing out a fresh wave of moisture that he lapped up greedily.
“Please, Roman fuck, please let me cum,” the words spilling out in a desperate rush, her hands gripping the desk as if it were the only thing anchoring her to reality.
Her voice was nothing but a whimper as he pushed two fingers inside her without warning, curling them upward to stroke that spongy spot deep within her walls, stretching her. The combination was overwhelming his fingers thrusting in a steady rhythm, while his mouth focused on her clit, sucking and nibbling with increasing intensity. She could feel the pressure mounting again, her orgasm hovering just out of reach, and she bit her lip to stifle another plea, not wanting to stroke his ego even more.
Each flick of his tongue, each curl of his fingers, pushed her closer to the edge without letting her fall, the buildup slow and torturous, every sensation etched into her.
Her pussy throbbed around his invading digits, the way he twisted them angling upward with each thrust that drove her mad, hitting that sweet spot over and over until stars burst behind her eyelids.
As the tension reached its peak, Makenzie's body tensed, her inner walls fluttering wildly around his fingers, a telltale sign that she was teetering on the brink once more. She could feel the orgasm building like a thunderhead, her clit pulsing under his relentless tongue, every lick and suck drawing her closer to that shattering release.
But just as the first spasms started to ripple through her, Roman stopped dead, yanking his mouth and fingers away with a wet, obscene slurp that left her pussy clenching at empty air.
“No! Fuck, don’t stop!” she cried out, her voice cracking with frustration, her body trembling on the edge of oblivion, the sudden absence a cruel torment that made her hips twitch involuntarily.
He rose to his feet swiftly, his hand wrapping around her wrist with rough authority, pulling her upright from the desk in one fluid motion. Makenzie stumbled slightly, her legs weak and shaky from the denied climax, her pussy still throbbing with unmet need, juices trickling down her inner thighs
Roman’s eyes roamed over her body hungrily, taking in the sight of her brown skin, her breast heaving with each labored breath, nipples stiff and begging for attention. For a second his gaze lingered on her pussy, watching as it pulsed with aftershocks, the lips parted and slick, a testament to how thoroughly he'd worked her over.
Roman pushed her aside just enough to claim the desk for himself, lying back on its smooth surface with a predatory grace that made her pulse race.
“Get on top” he ordered, his eyes locking onto hers with that intense hunger, the words a crude invitation that sent a shiver down her spine.
Makenzie climbed onto the desk without hesitation, straddling his hips, her knees sinking into the wood on either side of him, the heat of his body radiating against her inner thighs. She positioned herself above his dick, feeling the tip brush against her soaked entrance, the anticipation making her breath hitch.
Slowly, deliberately, she lowered herself onto him, the head of his dick parting her folds and stretching her wide, inch by glorious inch filling her up until she was seated fully, his shaft buried to the hilt in her tight, quivering pussy. The sensation was overwhelming a deep, throbbing fullness that made her moan loudly, her walls gripping him like a fist, the angle allowing her to grind down and feel every vein pulsing inside her.
As she began to move, riding him with a steady rhythm, the desk creaked beneath them, the sound mingling with the wet slap of their bodies colliding. Makenzie's hands planted on his chest, fingers digging into the firm muscles as she lifted and lowered herself, each downward thrust driving his dick deeper, the head hitting that sensitive spot with precision that made her eyes roll back.
“Fuck, you're so deep,” she gasped, her voice thick with lust, the words spilling out as she picked up speed, her breast bouncing with the motion.
Roman's hands gripped her hips, guiding her movements, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh as he thrust up to meet her.
“That's it, bounce on my dick show me how bad you wanna cum,” he growled, his voice rough with pleasure. Her arousal coated him completely, a hot, slippery mess that made every stroke feel even more invasive, her pussy walls pulsing and gripping him tighter with each passing second.
Makenzie obeyed, slamming down onto him harder now, her ass bouncing against his thighs with each drop, the force driving his dick so deep that she felt it in her stomach, every inch of him throbbing and pulsing inside her. She could feel his balls slapping against her ass with the rhythm, heavy and full, the skin taut and slick with their combined mess, and it pushed her closer, her clit grinding against him in a way that made stars explode behind her eyes.
Roman's hands gripped her waist, guiding her with expert control, his own breaths turning to grunts as he thrust up to meet her, the head of his dick swelling even larger, veins bulging as he fought to hold back. His dirty talk spurring her on, the vulgar words heightening the raw sensuality until she was moaning incoherently, her body a filled with sensations, the stretch, the fullness, the relentless pounding that made her inner walls quiver and contract.
Just when she thought she couldn't take anymore, Roman's hands slid down to her ass, squeezing the cheeks hard as he pulled her flush against him, his dick buried to the hilt, and whispered, “Cum for me.”
The command shattered her, her orgasm crashing over her like a tidal wave, her pussy clamping down on his shaft in rhythmic spasms that milked him relentlessly, waves of ecstasy radiating from her core to every nerve.
She screamed, the sound raw and uninhibited, her juices gushing around him in hot, sticky pulses that soaked his groin and the desk beneath, her body shaking violently as the release tore through her.
Roman followed suit, his dick throbbing wildly inside her as he exploded, thick ropes of cum shooting deep into her cunt, filling her with his hot, viscous load until it leaked out, mixing with her arousal in a filthy, dripping mess. The sensation of his seed pumping into her, warm and endless, prolonged her climax, their bodies locked in that perfect synchrony.
Makenzie collapsed against Roman's chest, her heart still hammering like a wild drum in her ears. The air in the room was thick with the scent of their release his cum leaking slowly from her swollen cunt, a warm, sticky trickle that soaked the insides of her thighs. She could feel every inch of him softening inside her, his dick twitching with the aftershocks of his orgasm, while her pussy clenched involuntarily around him, milking the last drops as if reluctant to let go. Roman's hands roamed lazily over her back, tracing the curve of her spine with a possessiveness that made her shiver.
Neither of them moved right away, they just laid there. The line between trainer and client had been crossed with no signs of going back. The rules of the bet were clear, but the rules between them have suddenly blurred into something neither of them could describe. Both of them knew that the next twenty-five days were going to get way more complicated.
pairing: roman reigns x black reader
summary/warning: you've catered to his bruises long enough he thinks, wanting desperately to have you in his arms. | smut. hints of fluff. minors do not interact. explicit descriptions, 18+
word count: 2k
music inspo: comfortable by h.e.r
it was a massage. sure tender hands running into his skin with a deep enough pressure to lull him into the fondest sense of security. a sweet burning incense curling up free and lavender oil smooth over reddened tawny welts and some day old scars. and if he could, he'd reach up, flex his core easy and push his lips up to yours to kiss the pout of them away. but you're determination proceeds any of the more amorous wants plaguing him. a feverish rush simmering through the run of his blood. its a fast sure course through his fingers to the steady hardness between his legs. and you can feel him there, stirring excited, more impatient by the second. it was a massage, but you weren't sure how long he would last.
he's smooth and clever, stains his fingers with the memory of your skin, palm coaxing a throbbing in your spine as it takes the journey to your nape. roman rests on the strength of an elbow. whisper's "c'mere", and revels in the leisure burning brown haze of your eyes.
he moans, your tongue licking at the seam of his lips till they pass to push against his own. and it's funny, he thinks he has you, as you take to a sloppy kiss. something light and pitchy singing from your throat when he bites. tenses his teeth to tease your bottom lip. he thinks he has you good, stowed away in the hard set of his arms, your breath hurried and impatient when he breaks from you just to rush in again. but its all game and tactic. the slowest dance.
your nails run a little with pain at their tips, trailing his neck till his own spine throbs in their wake. but nothing feels better than the wrap of them about his throat. barely pressured but your hand there all the same, feeling his pulse, as the other cradles his head.
a short tug at the root and he's a mess of groans. clawing further into your waist till you're grinding into his lap.
your lips break but stay just close enough to share breaths.
you tsk. "this was supposed to be relaxing. your body is still healing"
he hums. falls, bringing you with him into a nest of pillows. palms slipping slow over exposed supple skin, meticulous, till something flares in the brown of his eyes, and then he's clawing in till you're roughed into him further. "you touch me the way you do and expect me to behave".
your thumb reaches to soothe slow over tempting lips. a sweet caress as the lavender coaxes you to settle further into his embrace. "i just wanna see you better. hate it when you get hurt like this".
"i'm alright", and you think he's never been so sure of anything. kisses against your fingers, your palm, and then back to your mouth. simple and sweet as he rolls over to continue. tongue and lips working in tandem till you're moaning and melting into the fluff of the sheets. " 'm alright enough to touch you", his tongue curling before it runs flat to lick your at nipple. “taste you”. lips catching to suck gentle. and the feeling is good to him, the bud rolling over easy. more so even when you pull his head in gentle for more, as if you'd ever have to ask. you'd never have to plead even, unless you wanted to. and just after he breaks, he pulls at the bud, teasing with his teeth. "alright enough to hold you". and he finds himself just at the other side, his tongue soothing over wet and more persistent than before. bordering closer and closer to that fine line of feral-ness.
he hadn't seen you in sometime. constantly on the go, in cars, on planes, from city to city, till he was done, and then after that he was out of country and that distance only made the ache for him worse. and the ache for you just as unbearable.
so you understand the burden, that wild edge to his touch. pushing and prying at your hot skin, hands ripping at the dainty sodden fabric of your panties. and you smell good, his nose breathing in, followed by the run of his tongue just at that plain of skin where your inner thigh folds. and something like possession corrals in him, forces his mouth to water and his tongue to taste. ardent and masterful, measured, like he's remembering you. a firm wet slip up till he's catching the nub of your clit. and then he remembers, why he aches so much, in hotel rooms across the country and the sea, flits his eyes up to see what a sweet mess he's made of you so far and remembers everything.
"baby girl, you're beautiful y'know that?"
he breathes warm over you, and it has you clenching about nothing, his words slipping a silly grin into your lips. "if i didn't, i know now".
"need you to know it everyday".
wet kisses at the underside of your thighs, thumbs holding at the bend of your knees till he's back where you need him most.
and fuck is it perfect. an untainted bliss. his tongue a firm caress as his mouth closes in to suckle. raven hair like a veil as it falls around him. groans harsh. desperate and chest deep, resonating till it rides the course just under your skin. beard rubbing your flesh raw, and your spine throbs again, so much so till an arch fights its way there and you cry. whispered chants, fuck fuck fuck, your nails finding their way to the hair at his nape, tugging but pushing, overwhelmed but needing more.
your hips roll into his mouth. a slow grind that catches his steady rhythm.
you sob just slightly, releasing the tightness in your chest, but it seems inefficient when he pushes your legs further apart. breaks only to lay his fat tongue at your slit. the tip curling artful, pushing into a rhythm of gentle strokes against slick walls. a soft savoring as he traps your clit between his thumb and fore finger to remedy the pulsing ache.
the drive of him is more methodical than not but forever underscored by a ready to burst primal urge. him, the rhythm, it's something dynamic and it shakes you down till you're quivering hard.
and theres the beginnings of a soreness in your throat. a raspy moan that forces his hips to rut against the sheets. searching for some mild form of relief.
"mhmm, please rome", a mewl, and it's featherweight, disjointed. surges into his nerves this restless need to see you undone.
you tremble, a harsh bursting that treks over nerve and skin. a white heat that falls, a rushing in and a pulling away fast. release beating hard and unforgiving into your blood. but still his tongue swipes, along your slit till it flicks its way to the fat of your clit. a slow sweeping roll before he's pulling up and away to kiss wet at your mouth. less measured and lazy. his hair wild, your fingers pulling away fallen strands as you lap at his tongue to have a taste. it makes him rut again, clothed but hard still. painfully so as you continue to lap and suck at his tongue. teeth tensing the seam of his lips the way he does as often as he can.
he grows sloppy in the kiss, seemingly more needy, less attentive to the natural ways he controls the pace. your legs take to wrapping around his waist just as you break from his lips, a thin silky string of spit the only thing connecting raw, kiss swollen mouths. he licks out to take it in, that fine wet connecting string , till its riding the seam of your mouth again, waiting for access.
and he's huge, strength more fierce than you remember it being, but he's sure to remind you as he pulls up to sit his knees into the bed. a relaxed kneeling position as you wrap secure about him, waiting for more of whatever he has to give you. and he steels his breathing, pushes at the constraints of his underwear till he's free and stiffening more against the cooler air. a single arm holding you up high along his chest and the other pulling hard strokes at his cock. a groaning "fuck", flowing between the both of you as he teases the dripping head at your clit.
"missed this", you give him. words falling into the freckles at his cheek as he teases the slick mess of your slit, hands nailing into the fat of your ass, a hard grip, as he grinds your pussy against him. marveling wild at the slipping sensation, a mess and a half of moans, till he's too ravaged to take more teasing done by his own hand. but your at his ear still, whispering. "missed you fucking me".
" 'm here now", he roughs out. widens the part of his knees. for more stability, more room to take you.
"mhmm", uncontrolled and sweet from your throat. realizing just what he's doing as he grips his hands tighter before bringing you down for a vicious stroke.
and the easy slip of you makes his chest huff deep, skin taking a sticky wet mold to his as he digs in and stretches you to take to the hilt, a milder form of a roughing as he feeds hard into you. teetering still on that line where patience ends and primal urges begin, as you cling to him. wet and warm, and so good for him. each down swing he moves your hips into birthing the sweetest lewd smacking at his skin. the hard front of his waist and lap soaked, pelvis hitting just right at the open spread of your slit enough to catch a dragging at your clit.
and it goes like this for some time, both you stewing in the heat of the day as he lays claim to you once again, after so much time and distance, and you to him, biting at the tough skin of his shoulder for some sort of reprieve from the building tension.
your clit flutters. ready for another release. a small cry, the well of a single tear, and hes nudging firm, catching sweet at the spot that leaves you moaning and breathless. an unshakeable stir in your core, nails tempted to indent the wide set of his back, but your settle for a lazy swing of arms around his neck. not wanting to injure him more than he is already.
"ahhaa fuck". breath catching with another release.
a tight drooling spasm against his cock. his hips rutting desperate for more, a firm clench against him again that nearly drives him to swoon. " that pussy gets so messy when you come", he growls.
and you hum, long and weak, flexing against him again. taut enough to stir the coiling in his core. lips taking his into some slow disjointed kiss. molding together till it's broken apart for breath, leaving you to suck and tease at him.
the sheets grow sodden, more as he ruts his hips and drags deep. digging into you hard, fire in the heat of his hands. fingers pulling, tugging and spreading, slipping lower to cup against the undersides of your thighs to pry your pussy open and over him. a mean growl toughing up out his chest as he fights to keep that steady downward stroke of your hips.
"you're good for me baby girl", words falling along your skin. "so good".
he stirs, roughs you into a grind as he comes undone. mumbling and groaning incoherently. curses and praise s that flow natural into a breathy silence.
he works to still the raging in his chest. breathing into your neck and falling into the smoothening your touch gives the wild shuddering that takes to his nerves.
you fall with him, a gentle bounce as you lay atop him along the sheets. dripping in you still with a growing softness. skin sticky and hot to the touch but sated. air breezy and cool as it curls in, pushing past the sway of curtains.
he can smell the lavender still on your skin, at the tips of your fingers as he kisses them. folds his fingers into yours, soothing over the patch of skin there.
SUMMARY: The world sees a warrior. She sees a man who only exhales when she touches him.
After a brutal match ends in chaos, Roman sends nothing but a room number. No words. No apology. No warning.
But Shiloh comes anyway.
And in the silence that follows, she gives him what no one else ever has—peace, softness, and a body he can lose himself in.
🥀 Emotional aftercare. Sacred-level smut. And a man who doesn’t know how to let go—until she shows him he doesn’t have to.
CONTENT WARNING: This story includes graphic smut (oral, vaginal, size kink, overstimulation, creampie), strong language, emotional vulnerability, references to violence (in-ring), and intense aftercare. If you like your smut dirty and your emotions raw, this one’s for you.
WORD COUNT: 4.7k
A/N: This one did something to me. We might have went a little overboard with the smut. 😭 It’s filthy, yes—but also soft in a way that feels sacred. Roman is raw and wrecked, and Shiloh is the calm he didn’t know he needed.
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There’s a whole masterlist waiting to ruin you softly.
The world saw a warrior. She saw a man who only ever exhaled when she touched him.
She shouldn’t be here.
That thought echoed through her mind with every step she took down the carpeted hallway, her hoodie sleeves stretched over her palms, her heart thudding too loud in her chest. The hotel smelled like bleach and dust—clean but hollow. The kind of place where things came to rest. Or fall apart.
Her footsteps felt like thunder even though she moved quietly. Carefully. The closer she got to his door, the more her stomach knotted.
Room 815.
She’d stared at the text for ten minutes before even leaving the house. Just those three numbers. He didn’t say come. Didn’t say don’t. He just sent the room number, hours after the fight. After whatever had been clawing at him finally broke loose in the ring.
Shiloh had watched it on her phone. The clips. The commentators’ stunned silence when he didn’t stop swinging after the bell. The way security had to pull him off the guy. The way Roman didn’t look like Roman.
She’d seen that version of him before.
The version with the split knuckles and the cold stare.
The one who walked into the recovery room months ago with blood on his hoodie and pain in his bones and nothing left in his voice.
Back then, she hadn’t flinched.
And she wasn’t going to now.
Still, when she reached his door, her hand hovered.
She wasn’t scared of him. That wasn’t what this was.
It was what she carried for him. The tenderness, the ache. The way she saw through him even when he tried to disappear into silence. The way she knew—deep in her chest—that he needed softness more than he’d ever admit. That tonight, he didn’t need discipline or space or distance.
He needed to be seen.
To be held.
To be touched like a man, not a monster.
So she raised her hand and knocked. Softly. Once.
No answer.
Not for ten seconds. Maybe fifteen.
Then the lock clicked.
And the door opened.
The hotel room door shut behind him with a weight that had nothing to do with hinges.
Roman didn’t speak.
He dropped his gym bag by the dresser and let the silence settle over the room like fog—thick and slow, clinging to everything it touched. The air still carried the echo of the fight: adrenaline, frustration, sweat. That unshakable feeling of being full of everything and nothing at the same time.
He should’ve gone to the trainer. Should’ve iced his shoulder. Popped something for the swelling in his knee.
But he didn’t.
Because she was already here.
Shiloh sat at the edge of the bed in one of his hoodies, legs crossed, back straight but not tense. His gaze dropped, caught on the full curve of her hips, the way the oversized hoodie clung to her like it knew exactly what it was covering. She was thick in the kind of way that made a man lose his damn mind. Plush thighs. Fat ass. Built like comfort and chaos. He bit the inside of his cheek just to keep still. Her hands were tucked into the sleeves, her lips glossed with something soft and pink. The glow from the cracked bathroom door behind her lit her skin in warm gold.
She didn’t flinch when he walked in.
Didn’t rise or rush him.
She just looked at him—quietly, gently—like she was counting the parts that made it back whole.
“You okay?” she asked, voice low. Careful. Not tiptoeing—just attuned.
Roman’s gaze dragged up her body like it hurt to look too long. Not because she wasn’t beautiful—but because she was. And he didn’t know how to hold something like that without feeling like he might crack it open by mistake.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said finally. His voice sounded rough, like it had been scraped across gravel.
Shiloh blinked. She didn’t look away. “I came anyway.”
That did something to him.
He crossed the room in three slow steps and dropped to his knees in front of her. The sound of it wasn’t dramatic—just real. Solid. His hands found her thighs, palms warm even through the fabric, and then he leaned forward and pressed his forehead to her stomach like he was begging for silence.
She didn’t expect the way her chest ached just watching him breathe. Didn’t expect how warm he still was—even after the world tried to make him cold.
She touched him anyway.
Her fingers slipped through his damp hair, down to the back of his neck, tracing the line where tension still lived. Her touch didn’t ask for anything. It simply said: I’m here. I see you. I’m not leaving.
Roman exhaled like he hadn’t done that since the fight.
“You’re the only one who sees me like this,” he said, barely above a whisper.
Shiloh’s hand stilled, then moved to his jaw. She tilted his face upward until his eyes met hers.
And just like that, a memory bloomed.
The first time Shiloh saw him, he didn’t speak.
He walked into the recovery room with a scowl on his face and blood drying on the collar of his hoodie. His knuckles were split, and his right arm hung lower than his left—like even lifting it would cost too much.
She glanced up from the file in her lap. Her supervisor wasn’t in yet.
He noticed her—but barely. Like he was scanning for threats, not people.
He sat on the padded table with a grunt and pulled the hood lower over his face. Not a word.
Shiloh stood slowly, walked to the counter, grabbed an ice pack, and brought it over.
Still no eye contact.
“Your shoulder,” she said softly. “Right side?”
He didn’t nod.
Didn’t deny it either.
She reached out and laid the ice against the swelling—lightly, gently, not forcing it. His flinch was instinctive, but it passed. And then he finally looked at her.
Eyes sharp. Quiet. Heavy-lidded like they’d seen too much.
She met his stare without dropping hers.
“You don’t have to explain pain to me,” she murmured.
He blinked. Just once. Like he wasn’t expecting that.
Like maybe he didn’t even want to be understood—but now that he was, it made his whole body settle just an inch.
They didn’t speak for the rest of the session. She taped his wrist and iced his ribs. He didn’t make a sound, but his breath hitched once when her hands brushed lower than expected.
She apologized. He didn’t say anything.
But when he stood to leave, his voice was deep and low.
“You always this calm?”
She gave a half-smile. “You always this grumpy?”
And for the first time, Roman Reigns—fight-hardened, blood-smeared, silent-as-the-grave Roman—grinned.
Just a little.
He came back three days later. Asked for her by name.
And over time, something started to form.
No flirting.
No games.
Just longer sessions. Longer silences. Until the silences weren’t empty anymore.
Until she started waiting for the sound of his boots in the hallway.
Until he started staying five minutes after. Then ten. Then walking her to the parking garage.
Until the night he looked at her and said:
“I don’t usually let people touch me. But you… I feel like I’d stop breathing if you didn’t.”
And maybe that’s when he knew.
Maybe she did, too.
She still remembered that first night. The blood on his hoodie. The way he couldn’t meet her eyes until she told him he didn’t have to explain pain. The way he looked at her now was different—but the man underneath hadn’t changed. Just the way he let her hold him.
“That’s why I don’t look away,” she whispered.
And that’s when he kissed her.
The kiss wasn’t urgent. It didn’t demand or dominate. It opened.
Warmth bled between them as her lips moved against his—slow, sweet, and sure. He tasted like iron and something tired. She tasted like ChapStick and vanilla and something his.
Roman made a low sound in his throat. Not quite a growl. Not quite a sigh. Something in between. A sound that meant thank you for touching me when I feel like a monster.
He deepened the kiss, just enough to feel her breath change.
One hand cradled her jaw. The other moved to her back. He held her like a man holding the last soft thing in a hard world.
When he pulled back, his voice was hoarse.
“Take it off, Shy.”
Her throat went dry. The syllable of her name felt heavier when he said it like that—slow, deep, like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
She nodded, fingers curling around the hem of the hoodie.
It wasn’t modesty. It was vulnerability.
Being bare around Roman was different. He didn’t just see her. He memorized her. Devoured her with his eyes like he wanted to be fluent in her skin.
Still, she peeled it off.
Underneath: soft bralette. Cotton shorts. Bare thighs. Gold anklet.
The shorts clung to her like a second skin, cinched just under the swell of her ass. Her hips flared, thick and smooth, and her thighs jiggled just a little as she moved—soft enough to sink into, strong enough to ride him into the mattress. Roman swore under his breath again, because fuck… she was thick and beautiful and everything he didn’t deserve.
Roman swore under his breath. In English first. Then Samoan.
“You don’t even try to kill me. You just do.”
He took off his own shirt—slow, deliberate. The bruises on his ribs bloomed deep purple. A long, angry cut ran beneath his collarbone. He didn’t flinch.
But when she reached for him, he caught her wrist.
“Don’t fix it,” he said. “Just be here.”
Shiloh’s eyes softened. She touched his chest anyway—right over the cut—and whispered, “Okay.”
And then his mouth found hers again.
Slower this time. Hungrier.
Roman’s mouth never strayed far from hers, but the kiss shifted—lower, deeper, more possessive. His lips dragged along her jaw, then lower, biting softly at her neck.
Then he sat back, gaze dark and unreadable.
“On your knees, mama.”
Shiloh’s breath caught. Not from fear. From the sheer weight in his voice.
She moved without hesitation. Slid off the bed onto the carpet, the press of the cool floor grounding her even as heat licked up her spine. Her body was buzzing—raw and worshipful. Being in front of him like this didn’t feel small. It felt powerful. Sacred. Like her mouth was the only place he wanted to lose control.
Roman leaned back slightly, legs spread, watching her with a hunger that almost made her ache. His cock strained against his sweats, thick and already leaking. And when she reached up to free him, his eyes fluttered closed for a second—just one.
“You know what I like,” he said, voice gravel. “So don’t tease me, baby. Not tonight.”
She pulled him out, her hand not even able to wrap fully around him. God, he was heavy in her palm. Warm. Veined. His tip was flushed and dripping, and she licked it once—just a flick, just to taste him.
Roman’s hips jerked.
“Fuck—”
Shiloh looked up at him through her lashes, her lips wrapping around the head. She sucked him in slowly, relaxing her jaw, inch by inch, until she couldn’t take any more. She gagged softly—his size never stopped being a stretch—but she pushed herself down again, letting her nose brush the firm line of his abs.
His groan was guttural.
“Jesus, Shy…”
She held him deep, her throat tightening around him, breathing through her nose. Her palms rested on his thighs, grounding herself in his warmth. Her eyes watered—but not from discomfort. From the rush. The intimacy. The way his whole body shook beneath her.
Roman’s hand found the back of her head—not rough, just firm.
“Look at you,” he rasped. “Givin’ me this sweet fuckin’ throat like it belongs to me.”
It did.
Every part of her did, and he knew it.
She moaned around him, letting the vibrations travel through him like lightning. He bucked once—just once—and then forced himself still.
“Shit, baby. I’m hangin’ on by a thread.”
He was unraveling, and she felt it.
And God, she loved it.
Loved that this man—this warrior, this myth, this fucking machine of violence—was coming undone because of her. Because of her mouth, her patience, her devotion.
He looked down just in time to see her spit slick down his shaft, her lips glossy, her eyes wild with heat. She sucked harder, cheeks hollowing, then pulled back and stroked him with both hands, spreading her spit all the way to the base.
Roman was breathing like he’d just run five rounds.
“Fuck. You tryin’ to make me bust in your mouth, mama? That what you want?”
She nodded, then swallowed him again.
Deeper this time.
Sloppier.
More desperate.
Her throat worked around him, each bob messier than the last. Her tears smeared down her cheeks. And still—she didn’t stop. She gave all of herself, like worship, like penance, like prayer.
Roman’s jaw clenched so hard it ached.
“Shit—Shy—you gotta stop—fuck—you gon’ make me—”
He pulled her off, fast but careful, panting like he just survived a war.
His cock was dripping, shiny and soaked, twitching in her grip. And her lips—God—her lips were swollen and slick with him.
She looked ruined.
And he’d never seen anything more perfect.
“Get up here,” he growled, low and urgent. “Now.”
Shiloh climbed onto the bed, flushed and breathless. Her thighs were trembling, her body dripping. She looked like she was ready to burst.
Roman dragged her into his lap, every part of him still shaking from the feel of her throat.
Shiloh was already straddling him, bare thighs spread across the thick muscle of his lap. Her ass settled heavy against him, thick and plush, the kind of weight that made his pulse throb. Every time she shifted, he felt her softness drag along his skin like a slow tease. That ass had a rhythm of its own—one he’d memorized, one he craved. It wasn’t just how she moved—it was what she made him feel when she did. Her softness against him made his whole body tense. He gripped her hips, thumbs pressing slow circles into her skin like he was mapping her, muscle by muscle.
“You sure?” he murmured, voice low and gritty, jaw tight with restraint.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Nah, baby. I need to hear it.”
“I want you,” she breathed, lips brushing his. “I want all of you.”
Roman’s nostrils flared.
“You got me.”
He nudged the tip against her entrance. Just that—no pressure, no push—just enough for her body to remember what it was like to be stretched by him.
She inhaled sharply. Her hips twitched, needy already.
“You feel that?” he rasped. “She already opening for me.”
He gripped his cock at the base and slid it against her folds, teasing. Her slick coated him instantly. He didn’t even push in yet, and she was already dripping.
“So fuckin’ wet. All this for me?”
“Yes,” she gasped. “It’s yours, Roman.”
“Damn right it is.”
Then he sank into her.
Slow. Deep. Unforgiving.
Shiloh’s mouth fell open, eyes squeezing shut as he filled her inch by inch. The stretch was insane. Her walls fluttered around him, barely able to take it.
Fuck—he was huge.
Every goddamn time, it felt like he was breaking her in from scratch. Like her pussy forgot how to handle him the second he pulled out. And now—now he was splitting her open like he owned the right to ruin her.
No one else had ever felt like this. No one else had ever made her gasp just from the first few inches. Roman filled every part of her—thick, heavy, perfect—and still had more to give.
It wasn’t fair. How the stretch made her ache and gush all at once. How her walls clenched like they were desperate to hold onto him. How her pussy went dumb the second he bottomed out.
She was fucking addicted to it.
To him.
To the way he made her feel small, stuffed, ruined…
And God help her, she loved it.
Loved being the only one who could take it. Loved knowing this dick—the biggest she’d ever had—was hers.
Roman groaned, head falling back. His voice cracked when he said:
“Goddamn, Shy. I forget how tight this pussy is ‘til I’m back inside it.”
She whimpered. Tried to breathe. Failed.
“That’s it, baby. Ride it. Ride this dick like it’s yours.”
She rocked forward and down—shaky at first, then stronger. Her rhythm built, hips moving in rolling waves, the wet slap of skin-on-skin echoing through the room.
Roman didn’t stop watching her.
Her tits bounced with every grind. Her nails raked his chest. Her head fell back as she moaned his name, again and again, like a prayer unraveling.
“Look at you,” he gritted out. “You fuckin’ takin’ it. So pretty. So fuckin’ perfect.”
“Fat fuckin’ ass takin’ this dick like it was made for it,” he growled, gripping both cheeks hard. “You feel what you’re doin’ to me, baby? Bouncin’ like that, makin’ me lose my fuckin’ mind.”
His hand moved to her ass. SLAP.
She gasped, clenching hard around him. It sent a fresh bolt of heat through her core, her pussy tightening like a vice, sucking him in deeper.
“You like that?”
“Yes—Roman, please—”
“You gon’ make a mess all over this dick, huh?”
Another slap—harder. Her thighs jolted. Her back arched like she couldn’t help it. The sting of his palm only made the pleasure burn hotter.
“You better fuckin’ cream on me. I wanna see it.”
She didn’t even realize she was crying until her vision blurred—tears sliding down her temples, not from pain, but from the sheer overwhelming stretch of him inside her. Every time she lifted and dropped her hips, she felt her body split wide open, clenching just to survive the next thrust.
It wasn’t just pleasure.
It was obliteration.
He filled her so deep her guts throbbed. Her belly felt taut from how far he reached, the tip of his cock dragging along every soft, swollen nerve that had already been fucked raw. Her clit throbbed just from how full she was. And she couldn’t stop—didn’t want to.
“You feel what you do to me?” Roman groaned, voice cracking. “You ridein’ me like that and expect me to hold on?”
He grabbed her hips tighter. Forced her to grind deeper, slower, harder. The friction made her eyes roll back. Her pussy fluttered, soaked and messy and milking him with every bounce.
And then he looked down.
“Oh fuck—look at you.”
His jaw dropped. His voice dropped lower.
Her slick coated him in white, a creamy ring forming around the base of his cock every time she bottomed out. Her juices smeared his thighs. The air smelled like sweat, sex, and something dangerously addictive.
“Fuck, baby—you see that shit?” he growled. “You fuckin’ drippin’ down my balls.”
Shiloh whimpered. Her body trembled uncontrollably. She was seconds from losing it, thighs shaking, pussy clenching in rhythmic spasms around him.
“I can’t—I’m gonna—”
“You better fuckin’ cum,” he said, voice low, wicked. “Let me see you lose control on this dick, mama. Let me feel all of it.”
His hands gripped her ass, slammed her down—and that was it.
She shattered.
Her body jerked forward like something had snapped inside her. Her scream tore from her throat, raw and helpless. Her walls convulsed. Wetness exploded down her thighs in hot, pulsing waves. She squirted around him, again and again, coating his lap with a slick, chaotic mess.
“Fuck you’re squirting for me, huh?” he hissed. “Look at that. Look how wrecked you get for me.”
And still—he didn’t stop.
He fucked her through it, his cock dragging slow and deep through her still-gushing pussy. Her head fell back. Her mouth stayed open. Every nerve was on fire.
“You want another?”
She whimpered. “Roman—I—I can’t—”
“Yes you can.”
He flipped her.
One motion—gripped her waist, laid her back, and lined himself up again.
“Legs open. Let me see that pretty pussy I just broke.”
He slid back in—no resistance now. Just slick heat.
“Mmm. Still twitchin’. She not done yet.”
He put her ankles on his shoulders. Bent down. Kept all of him inside her.
Then he moved.
Deep, grinding thrusts that made the bed creak. His moans got rougher. His lips brushed her ear.
“Cum again, babygirl. One more. Just for me. Let me ruin you soft.”
Her hands gripped the sheets. Her body shook.
“Roman—I’m—fuck—I’m gonna—”
“Let go. Let me feel everything.”
She came again. Loud. Messy. Writhing beneath him as her body gave out. And that broke him.
He grunted. Cursed. Slammed into her twice more before groaning into her neck.
“Givin’ you all of it. Take it. Take it.”
His cock jerked deep inside her as he came—hard. Long. Gut-wrenching.
He didn’t pull out.
Didn’t even move.
Just lay over her, shuddering with every pulse.
“You okay?” she whispered, dazed, breathless.
Roman chuckled, voice still ragged.
“Baby… I think I saw God.”
Shiloh didn’t remember collapsing.
All she knew was that her body had given up. She was boneless, limp, ruined in the best possible way. Her legs trembled with aftershocks. Her skin tingled from every place he’d touched. And her pussy—God—her pussy throbbed, stretched wide and still pulsing, warm and wet from him.
Roman hadn’t moved.
He was still deep inside her when the last tremor rocked through her hips. Still pressing his forehead to hers. Still breathing like she was oxygen and the world had left him breathless.
“You okay?” he rasped.
Her voice was hoarse. “I think… I can taste colors.”
He chuckled. Deep. Warm. A sound that made her want to kiss the corner of his mouth just to feel it again.
“That good, huh?”
“You ruined me.”
“Good,” he said again, this time darker. “I like you ruined.”
He kissed her cheek and pulled out slow. She whimpered at the drag—how empty she felt the second he left her. The wet sound of him slipping free echoed between them.
He looked down.
And groaned.
“Fuck. Look what you did to me.”
His cock was slicked in her cream. The base was messy with it, sticky and glistening. His cream smeared down the backs of her thick thighs, leaving glossy trails on skin that still twitched from overstimulation. Her ass—red from his palms, soft from the way she molded into his lap—looked like it had been claimed. Marked. Remembered. There was a milky trail between her thighs, seeping onto the sheets. He brushed his thumb along her slit and watched her body twitch.
“You still sensitive?”
“Roman—”
“Yeah,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Still flutterin’. She not ready to let me go yet.”
Then he moved. She thought he was going to tease her again, but instead—
He left the bed.
The absence of him made her cold.
She heard water run. A drawer open. The rustle of cloth. The quiet click of the light dimmer.
When he came back, he knelt at the edge of the bed. Warm towel in one hand. Tenderness in the other.
“Open your legs for me, mama.”
She did.
Because her body always listened to him before her brain could.
He wiped her clean—slow, reverent. Cupped her thighs, spread her gently, ran the towel between her folds with care so tender it made her chest ache. She winced once.
He paused. Kissed the inside of her knee.
“I got you. I’ll be gentle. Just wanna take care of my mess.”
She whimpered at how soft he was. How filthy his voice still sounded even when he was trying to be delicate.
“You always this sweet after you cum?” he murmured, brushing her skin with the backs of his knuckles. “Goin’ quiet on me like I ain’t just made you squirt on this dick twice?”
“You’re cocky.”
“I’m correct.”
Once she was clean, he stood and scooped her up.
Roman didn’t ask. Didn’t warn her.
He just wrapped her in his arms like he was reclaiming something that already belonged to him.
“Can’t walk yet, huh?” he teased, lips brushing her temple.
“I might fall face-first.”
“That’s alright. I’ll carry you every time.”
He tucked her into the bed gently, like he was setting something delicate into silk. Draped the sheet over her legs. Then slid in behind her, chest to her back, wrapping an arm around her waist.
But she twisted.
Rolled into him.
Tucked herself under his chin and pressed her lips to his collarbone.
“Stay close,” she whispered.
“I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
Room service trays now sat mostly ignored. Her stomach was full, her thighs sore. She was wrapped in one of his hoodies now—nothing underneath but warm skin.
Roman fed her sushi with his fingers. Held her ankle in his lap, massaging her calf.
“You always this quiet?”
“You always this soft?” she asked back.
His eyes lingered on her for a long beat. Longer than she expected.
“Only with you.”
She turned her face into his chest. Breathed him in. Then asked softly:
“Do you ever let anyone else see you like this?”
His answer was immediate.
“No.”
“Why me?”
He didn't rush the answer. He trailed his fingers along the seam of her thigh. Thought for a long time. Then:
“Because you don’t try to fix me. You don’t treat me like I’m some fucked-up legend. You just… show up.”
“I’d keep showing up if you let me.”
He looked down at her. For once, no smirk. No armor. Just a truth sitting heavy behind his eyes.
“You already do.”
He kissed her slow. Not sexual. Not even possessive.
Just like he couldn’t believe he got to.
And when he pulled away, the room was quiet again—except this time, the silence felt earned.
Safe.
Shiloh was already half-asleep, lips brushing his chest, hand resting over his heart.
But before she drifted, she heard him say—voice low, almost to himself:
“I sleep better when you’re the last thing I see.”
The room was still dark.
Early morning light hadn’t breached the curtains yet—just the faint blue hush of pre-dawn that settled across the ceiling like a sigh. The air was cool. The sheets were warm. And Shiloh—bare and curled beside him—was breathing slow and even, her face tucked into the crook of his shoulder.
Roman was already awake.
Had been for almost an hour.
But he hadn’t moved.
Not because he couldn’t.
Because he didn’t want to.
There was something sacred about this—about watching her sleep, soft and safe in a bed that had seen violence hours before. Her cheek rested on his chest, her lips parted slightly, and one thigh was draped over his waist like she had no intention of letting go.
And God… he didn’t want her to.
He ran his hand down her back. Barely a touch. Just enough to feel the curve of her spine. Just enough to remind himself she was still there.
Still here.Still his.
He leaned forward—careful not to wake her—and pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder. Then another, lower, just above her shoulder blade.
His lips lingered.
And then, in a voice no louder than breath, he whispered something no one else had ever heard from him. Not his family. Not his friends. Not even himself, in the mirror.
“I don’t know who I’d be without you.”
The words didn’t scare him.
What scared him was how true they felt.
He kissed her again—one more time, just because he could—and let his forehead rest against the space between her shoulder and neck. She stirred lightly, but didn’t wake.
Roman closed his eyes.
And for the first time in what felt like years, he didn’t feel like he had to armor up when morning came.
He didn’t feel like the fight would start again as soon as the sun rose.
He just felt... safe.
Because she was here.
Because she came anyway.
Because maybe—for once—he didn’t have to be anything more than this.
Just a man.
Just hers.
Author's Note ✍🏽:
If this one gave you feelings, made you squirm, or had you whispering “oh my God” to no one—please tell me everything. I live for your reactions.
💭 What line did it for you?
💭 What part made you feel soft?
💭 Should I write a morning-after continuation?
💭 Do you imagine this Roman existing in the same universe as any of my other stories?
Let’s talk about it in the comments or in your tags—I always read them. Your reblogs, reactions, and love keep me inspired. 💌
Slide into my inbox with your thoughts, keysmashes, theories, or thirst. I love getting asks and screaming with y’all about these characters—it makes sharing my work feel even more special. 🖤
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Thank you for being here. Thank you for reading. You're seriously some of the coolest people I know.
Warnings: mature content (18+), profanity, smut, age gap (17 years), dad's best friend, oral (Fem receiving), praise, um yeah
Parings: Roman Reigns (Joe Anoai) x Plus size reader (Willow Carter)
December 27th, 2025
Words couldn't even begin to explain the amount of rage Willow was feeling in this moment. After everything she had done to keep her and Sean's relationship afloat—getting two jobs, going to school, and even supporting him when he had no job felt as though it was all for nothing. Her feeling was proven right when she caught him laying in the bed that she paid for with another woman; Nadia, her best friend of 15 years. She was seething with something more than anger, and mixed with an immense amount of betrayal. She didn’t know what to do with herself at that moment. Sean and Nadia frantically hopped out of bed, trying to find their own articles of clothing while trying to convince Willow that they were going to explain that they didn’t mean for this to happen, that it was a mistake. Nadia had tears welling in her eyes as if she was the one getting cheated on and Sean got on his knees in hopes that Willow will pick him up and forgive him. But both of their pitiful tactics had no effect on willow. She walked past the both of them, grabbed a duffle bag from out of the closet, grabbed some clothes and toiletries, and left.
The walk outside was when it all hit her, and she finally came crashing down as she got inside her car. The uncontrollable tears were now rolling down her cheeks,the salty taste of them corroding her mouth. She didn’t care at this point how she looked or how her emotions seeped out, all she cared about was where she was going next. She had nobody to lean on, no best friend to rant to, she was alone and she didn’t know what to do. So, she did the only thing she knew to do—went to the only person she could lean on, the only person she could rant to, her father.
Willow’s father, William, is a simple man really. He doesn’t live above his means, he watches the same kinds of television, worked at the same place for almost thirty years, and he wears the same kinds of clothes. He likes to cook and have a good beer from time to time as well. That’s something Willow always admired about her dad and also why she decided to stay with him for the next few days; he's simple, reliable, and stable, which is something she needs in her life right now.
Six Months Later
Summer is here and the heat has no mercy. The sun’s rays are beaming down on any and everything, cicadas and crickets are making sounds all in the trees and in the grass. The Carter’s, however are throwing meat on the grill, blaring blues music while they have a drink and play card games while the kids are chasing each other around, eating burgers and hot dogs, playing hide and seek outside, and running in and out of the house despite their mothers chastising them for doing so.
Life seems to be on the up and up all around, especially for Willow. She isn’t the sad girl who got betrayed by her ex boyfriend and best friend. She’s gotten better, she quit her job to start a new career after she finished her last year of college with honors, and she’s glowing from the inside out.
As time went by, she found herself feeling even better off a few drinks, some good steak thanks to her father’s grilling skills, and her favorite music playing on those speakers she and her dad bought the summer before her first year at college.
She was having a talk with one of her aunts about what's going on in her life and other family things as her dad came walking up to her with someone beside him, someone that Willow had never seen before. He was big, not in the sense that he was fat, but he was tall as hell and was very muscular. To her, he looked like those Greek gods she loved to read about as a child, and his face was so beautiful to her. It was like the creator carefully crafted every feature of it. His jawline was chiseled to the gods, his lips looked so full and soft, beard freshly shaven and had sprinkles of gray hairs just like the mane of hair on his head that was neatly gathered into a manbun, and his eyes were so brown, she didn't know why, but she didn't think she'd seen eyes have such a beautiful shade of brown ever in her life. She was struck by him. Who is this man? How did her dad manage to even meet him? These questions were running laps around her head until her dad and the mystery man came her way and her dad called her by her nickname.
“ LoLo, this is that friend I was telling you about a few months back while you were off at school, Joe. and Joe, this is my babygirl, Willow.” He said as he looked between the both of them with a small smile.
Joe smiled at Willow as he extended his large hand out for her to shake. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Willow. Your dad never stops talking about you, and I couldn’t wait to see what all the hype was about.”
His voice was so deep, yet so soothing. It reminded Willow of velvet in a way. And his smile made a sleuth of butterflies dance in her stomach. She went to shake his hand, and they were so soft, like those throw blankets she can't seem to stop buying from the store.
She gave him a small smile. She didn't want to smile too much because she was so nervous. “Hello, it's nice to meet you as well, and I hope dad didn’t embarrass me too much.” Her voice came out quieter than she thought it would, maybe she was more nervous than she thought.
“Of course I didn’t, Lo. I mean I may have told him about how you used to run around the house with your undies on your head but that’s about it.” William laughed and Willow jokingly pushed him “I’m kidding, I’m kidding” he continued to laugh before wiping a tear off his face. “Anyway, I gotta go throw some more meat on for these people, they like to take leftovers. Joe, you wanna talk to anyone else before I get back to it? I don’t mind letting you get to know everyone.”
Joe’s eyes were on Willow’s the whole conversation, and Willow didn’t notice until she looked at him herself, which made those butterflies in her stomach do backflips and summersaults.
“Yeah, sure. I don’t mind seeing the whole family.” His voice was like music to her ears, she didn’t want him to stop talking. “It was nice to meet you, Willow.” She loved the way he said her name. He gave her that beautiful smile of his before his dad and him walked off to the next family member.
Willow didn’t know what to do with herself. She had never felt that way about anyone before, not even with Sean. What was this feeling?
“Ouu girl, you drooling on your shirt ‘bout that man” aunt Shirley said from the table the two of them were sitting at as she took a sip from her wine cooler.
“Oh be quiet teetee.” The both of them laughed, and Willow wiped her cheek and looked down at her shirt quickly to make sure she wasn’t actually drooling over him.
Later that night, around 9pm
The gathering was officially coming to an end, the people with kids headed home first, some older cousins were having conversations and helping uncles fold the lawn chairs and tables, others were loading up their to-go plates and trying to hurry and get to the car before anyone asked them to do anything. Willow was now in the kitchen washing dishes. She hated washing the dishes but she agreed to do it since her dad spent the whole day cooking, and her social battery was at an all time low, so this was also an excuse to not have to speak to anyone else.
Then he walked in.
Joe was having a conversation with Willow’s dad as the two of them walked through the door, into the living room, and finally plopped down onto the leather couch Willow begged her dad to buy a few years ago. William was talking to Joe about a situation that happened at work that made him die laughing even after almost a week of the situation actually happening. Joe laughed along with him, but he couldn’t help but to occasionally look over at Willow every chance he got. He couldn’t help it. Everything about her intrigued him: the way she smiled before they made their way to her, how intoxicating her laugh was, how magnetic her being was, how sweet and refreshing her voice was, the way she looked at him. He couldn’t get enough of her.
Willow knew he was looking at her too, but she didn’t acknowledge him. What would she do? What would she say? She hadn’t said anything to him after they introduced themselves because she didn’t think she would be able to. And she definitely wasn't going to try since this was her father’s friend, and he’s the same age as him, if not a little older. She just didn’t think that they would have anything to talk about since they are in very different stages in life.
At least she thought she wasn’t going to talk to them.
Turns out she had spaced out for so long that she didn’t even notice that her dad walked outside to help the rest of the family clean up the lawn, which left her and Joe in the house by themselves.
Fuck.
Willow felt the tension between the two of them rise slowly but surely. And those damned butterflies started coming back into her stomach as she saw Joe walk into the kitchen out of her peripheral vision. She tried her best to control her breathing, but it was a lousy attempt so she just prayed that he didn’t notice.
“Let me help you out.” That voice of his has to be the most addicting thing on earth.
Willow turns her head to him, not really looking at him because she won’t be able to speak if she did. “Uh, you don’t have to. I’m almost done with them anyway… thank you though.”
“I don’t mind, and you don’t need to be washing all those by yourself anyway. I could at least help you dry them off, sweetheart.” He insisted as he made his way closer to the sink, closer to her. He smelled amazing, like the forest, or a warm cabin on a fall day. She couldn’t put her finger on the scent but she knew that she loved it. She wanted to be engulfed by his scent, by him.
“I- well okay, thank you, Joe.” she finally looked up at him and gave him a smile, and that had to have been the best and worst decision in her life. He really was the most handsome man she’d met in her life, but she couldn’t even think straight as she looked at him. She was going to hand him a dish but she couldn’t because she was literally stone right now. Is he the male medusa?!
“I’m guessing you need me to dry this huh?” he teased as he took the pan and a nearby rag to begin drying off the pan. Willow chuckled softly and continued to wash the remaining dishes in the sink.
“So, what did you major in?” Joe asked suddenly because he hated the silence, he wanted to hear her talk. He loved her voice, it was so sweet, so enchanting, it was like a drug he didn’t want to sober up from.
“Chemical engineering. It was hard but I got through it.” She handed him a wet dish.
“Damn, I can’t imagine how hard that is, but you seem pretty smart, and your dad said you’re the smartest person he knows so I’m sure you didn’t have too much trouble” He grabbed the dish and wiped it off with the rag.
“Well thank you, I’m just glad I finished. It was a lot going on in my life and honestly… nevermind that doesn’t matter. Thanks” she let out a deep sigh at the memories she had flooding in her mind and handed him the next dish.
Joe cocked his head at Willow, his expression was mixed with confusion and concern. “Did something happen? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but I’m sure it's important.” He assured her as he grabbed the dish
“Well, I mean my boyfriend and I were going through a rough patch while I was in school. He didn’t want me to be at school because he believed that he wouldn’t see me as much, and that I would find someone else to talk to. I didn’t talk to anyone at all, but I was at home less because I also had a job at the same time I was going to school. And that led to our relationship becoming strained…” she paused. It was like something inside of her forced her to stop talking because of what happened after, the part that she hasn’t really gotten over.
Neither of them had realized it yet, but Joe’s throw blanket soft hand was holding hers, a silent way of comforting her as she spoke about that traumatic past.
Willow finally felt their hands touching,and she wasn't nervous this time, she felt calm, more calm than she’d ever felt before. It was strange. And she finally developed the ability to look Joe right in the face without those butterflies having a fiesta in her stomach.
Joe had a different kind of expression on his face,more serious and irritated because some little insecure bitch boy couldn’t handle a woman like Willow. It actually made him boil with anger that someone like that would even try to hold someone else back. He held his tongue however and asked Willow, “What else happened?” his voice seemed to have dropped an octave or two.
“Well,” she began “I guess he was scared to lose me or something…I don’t know” She crossed her arms and held her head back down as if she was beginning to curl into a shell of protection, “He slept with my friend…my best friend of 15 years actually.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, it was like if she spoke higher that her voice would shake and she would begin to break down, and tears were already starting to form in her eyes.
Joe stayed silent for a moment. He needed to so he could find the right words to reply with. It was hard though considering he was now seething with anger and he couldn’t contain it anymore. How could he do that to her? This woman has everything going for her and he cheats on her. Joe couldn’t believe it. His eyebrows were a little furrowed and his nose flared out a little. And finally, he said “Maybe it was for the best.”
Willow cocked her head up at him in pure confusion “What?”
Joe let out a shallow sigh and shrugged “maybe him cheating on you was for the best. I mean, he’s obviously a little bitch. He tried to hold you back from going to school just because he was insecure and didn’t want to see you doing better than him. And so when you did, he couldn’t take it. So he went and slept with someone just as insecure. That’s how I see it,” he paused, now realizing that his hand was holding hers, and that they were way closer to one another. Her scent was intoxicating him. She smelled like vanilla, jasmine, and something sweet that he had to have a taste of. “ And honestly, you didn’t deserve to be treated like that. A real man would never disrespect you like that, baby.” That last word oozing off his tongue like honey.
“Oh.” is all Willow could manage to say. She was in awe of Joe's response. She never expected anyone, let alone him to say anything like that. She wiped away the small tear that tried traveling down her now blushing cheek and looked at him, this time her eyes were filled with a kind of curiosity. “So how would a real man treat me?” She asked.
They were even closer to each other now, there was little space between them yet so much at the same time. That subtle tension between them is now so thick that it could be chewed.
Joe stared at Willow for a few seconds, taking in her sunkissed features one last time before he placed his free hand onto her warm, plump cheeks. Then, without any warning, without saying a word, his lips crashed into hers. His lips easily dominated hers and she didn’t dare to try and fight it. She let him kiss her ever so hungrily in that kitchen. Willow’s body is on fire at this moment, she doesn’t know what to do with herself. She lets out a small gasp as she feels Joe lift her up and onto the counter with ease. His lips never parting from hers, he moves one of his hands to the nape of her neck in order to keep her in place—not that she was going anywhere.
Eventually, His lips slowly start to move away from hers and travel to the side and bottom of her cheek, to the sensitive part of her neck that causes her to let out a pathetic whimper of pleasure, and the way his free hand snuck his way onto those big breast of hers didn’t quiet her down at all. She was already a mess and he hadn’t even really done anything yet.
“I know, pretty girl, I know.. Mmh” Joe mumbled as he continued to leave sloppy kisses on her lips and neck, her moans making his dick tighten in his jeans. He’s trying to go slow with her, but the way she looks, the way she feels, the way she sounds is driving him to insanity.
Willow can’t think at all. Her body is so sensitive from his touch, and her core is begging for him to touch it, causing her to push her body to his in efforts to feel more friction. Joe notices her attempt and gives her a smug smirk as he kisses her one more time and picks her up as if she’s nothing. “ I know what you want, and imma give it to you baby. Where’s your room, Hm?” His voice sounds as if he’s purring at her.
Willow, a dazed mess, lazily points towards the hallway, Joe doesn’t waste any time getting to her room. It really helped that she had her name on the door.
They gave each other sloppy kisses as Joe placed Willow onto the bed, being careful not to throw her. He's on top of her now, placing his knee in between her thighs. The feeling of his knee slightly grazing Willow's pussy almost makes her lose the ability to breathe correctly. She was becoming so desperate for him that she took anything he gave her.
He noticed just how desperate she was becoming for him and he didn’t waste anymore time. His hand started traveling down her warm, soft body until he got to her shorts. She watched him as he practically ripped them off of her, and he kept his eyes on her as he teased her clit through her soaking panties
“This what you want, huh? You want me to make you feel good, pretty girl?” He purred as he leaned into her, planting small pecks on her ear while still circling her pussy through her panties.
Willow nodded frantically “Y-Yes, please make me feel good” Her voice was breathy and desperate and her body was pathetically grinding against his fingers.
Joe didn’t waste another second. He actually ripped her panties off, causing Willow to gasp right before letting out one of the most pornographic moans as Joe slid his middle and ring fingers inside of her, his thumb making steady circles around her clit.
“Ohhh my god!” she exclaimed before Joe gave her another kiss in efforts to keep her quiet . “shhh baby I know, I know” he rasped as he continued to finger her pretty pussy. “He never made you feel this good, did he?” He asked even though he knew the answer.
Willow shook her head as she let those sweet moans leave her mouth. “No, he d-didn’t” she could barely even get her words out. “Oh my god please…” She moaned into his ear.
“Please what, sweetheart? Use your words for me.” He started to pick up his pace, making it harder for her to form coherent sentences. “Tell daddy what you want him to do.” He started to apply more pressure to her clit as well.
“I- oohhhh! I want you to love m-me” She whined and started to twitch from all the pleasure.
Joe gave her one last kiss before slowly pulling his hands out of her pussy, dropping to his knees, and instantly latching his mouth onto it.
He let out something between a growl and a moan from how good she tasted to him. Willow’s eyes were rolling to the back of her head as she felt him devouring her like a starved animal. She tried backing away from his skillful tongue but he locked his arms around her thick thighs, forcing her to stay still and take what she asked for. One of her hands instantly grasped onto her sheets to anchor herself, the other covered her mouth so that her moans wouldn’t be so loud, not that it helped in any way. She didn’t care who heard her at this point, she only cared about the man who was in between her legs, making her feel better than she’d ever felt in a while, making her feel how she deserved to feel.
After a few more seconds, Willow felt herself getting close. Her breathing became more sporadic and her body was basically vibrating. “Daddy, I’m gonna c-come” She stuttered. Joe hummed in approval, not coming up for air, and not even a second later Willow’s thighs squeezed either side of Joe’s head and she made a complete mess of herself. Her pleasure was all over his face and her sheets.
“There you go baby, you did so good for me.” He praised her as he rose to his feet and kissed her with his lips and beard drenched with her juices.
A/N: Hello queens! I hope you all enjoyed my first ever fic! It did take a while to finish just because I was lazy from work and life. Let me know what yall liked or didn't care for or like what yall would like to see more of. I'm here for yall, just please don't be negative in any way because I'm really not for it.
A little bit about me if yall care, I've been reading fics for a LOOOONNGGGGG time, like way before I was supposed to lol. I've always wanted to write my own stories but never really had the guts to because I didn't think I would be good at it. But this year I decided to come out of my shell. I also want to give flowers to @trippinsorrows @sayyestoheav3nn and @thediaryofego / @youluvego . They all have impacted me to actually write, they always write amazing fics and stories and it honestly just inspired me to make my own as well! So thank all of yall, truly.
Thats about it from me. Again, thank you so much for reading. I truly appreciate it and love you ever so deeply love bug.
it’s miami, 1981. roman, the black sheep of his family, vies for his retiring father’s position as the Don of The Bloodline over his preferred eldest brother. to prove himself worthy, he runs the family strip club front until the most notorious mafia family in the territory has a monopoly on the city’s cocaine trade. and in you walk. a doe-eyed bambi in search of any gig that’ll pay, until a series of unforeseen events puts you in the center of the crossfire.
pairing: mafia!underboss!roman x black!stripper!reader
content warning: plot-heavy. unprotected sex. violence. death. murder. mentions of suicide. drug trafficking. mafia. cartel. MDNI.
wc: 16K.
an: this started out as a request that i sort of ran away with lmaooo. hope you enjoy. 🎀
LITTLE HAVANA, MIAMI.
NOVEMBER, 1981.
A ribbon.
On the pole, you move like red-satin ribbon in the wind.
The small spark of hot orange that blazes the end of his protruding cigar before dying into a cloud of smoke illuminates an otherwise dimly-lit Bunny’s.
He watches you swirl like a siren with the eyes of a starved wolf, his back against the counter of the club bar as an electric instrumental version of Michael Jackson’s ‘Dirty Diana’ strums through the air. Crisp dollar bills cascade down your frame, the natural cheers and applause woven into the intro of your signature record eerily similar to the response you draw from the patrons yourself.
A crowd pleaser. A top performer.
Roman overseeing Bunny’s was an arrangement that his father begrudgingly agreed to with the persuasion of Paul, his long-time consigliere.
The advisor humbly pointed out to the aging Don of the syndicate that the strip club provided the perfect opportunity for Roman to show whether or not he had the natural aptitude to manage the money laundering scheme effectively amid his brother’s absence.
Despite Rafael’s disinterest in inheriting his father’s title, the eldest son has always been Don Tahi’s preference. Even after he enlisted in the military as soon as possible to temporarily distance himself from the matter.
It was the perfect solution to the family’s glaring succession dilemma. If Roman could manage it without a reasonable doubt until Rafael’s return from the military, he’d inherit the title of the next Don of The Bloodline. After all, it was in his father best interest to settle the matter as soon as possible before the discord started seeping past the threshold of the family and tiptoeing across enemy lines.
Except no one could’ve possibly predicted the vigor of Roman’s hunger for the throne. The lengths he’d go.
All fueled by his father’s lack of faith in his ability to carry the family legacy that, due to repression, has festered into a deeply-rooted insecurity that has a tendency to manifest violently at times.
Like that one time Jimmy made a light hearted joke at his expense during a poker game in the basement of that one deli they frequent once Roman arrived after a particularly aggravating face-off with his father. Upon hearing the chuckle of an unsuspecting waiter who was passing around their drinks, he passive-aggressively asked if the man thought ‘he was a joke’ and put a bullet between his eyes when the man didn’t answer in time.
A murder that he justified to his stunned cousins with a scratch of his beard and a flat utterance of the underboss can’t be undermined before glaring between the lower-ranking associates on the other side of the small dimly-lit basement and the slumped body as a signal to clean up the dirty work.
Twelve months into his brother’s leave of absence, due to an unorthodox affiliation with an up-and-coming Colombian supplier, Roman increased The Bloodline’s cocaine market control in the city of Miami from a measly twenty-seven to a whopping eighty-four percent.
Carmen Santino is three things: a drug trafficker, a woman, and innovative.
Upon realizing the disparity in stunning women being searched at airport customs compared to the average passenger, she began getting creative with her shipments. While others were concealing coke in commercial cargo and luggage, she began using alluring Colombian women who’d wear custom bras and panties solely for smuggling purposes as drug mules to move product from Colombia to Miami.
Women who now populate the Bunny’s roster as dancers.
So when you first walked through the doors of the club in search of a job that one sunny day, the twins weren’t sure how to proceed.
You have this air about you. The way you carry yourself, the way you talk, the way you look. You’re a fawn. A sweetheart.
It’s all in your eyes.
The concept of someone like you working there was enough to chuckle at.
When they passed the message on to Roman who was momentarily occupied talking business to one of his uncles, it was out of pure entertainment. And when he told you to get up on stage for an impromptu audition, he seemed to share their sentiment. Pure entertainment.
You might’ve not known it then, but you were on the outside of an inside joke.
All of the women on Bunny’s roster, former mules of Carmen’s, were vaguely familiar with the true operation behind the strip club front. Women who were accustom to organized crime.
And you?
You looked like a fucking Disney princess.
Then your music hit.
Inch by inch, the minuscule smirk curved into his cheek melted into a firm line, his heart thudding underneath his crossed arms.
When you finished, the twins were beginning to break the bad news to you like they were going to do regardless before Roman intercepted with the start date and time of your first shift. Their heads snapped to his in bewilderment at his acceptance as you hesitantly nodded before thanking them for their time like it was some sort of corporate interview and gathered your belongings to leave.
Their, and initially— his, main concern with you was that you’d squeal. Shady shit happens every night at Bunny’s. You’re a civilian. You’d either hear or see something and you’d run to law enforcement. You weren’t raised around it like the others.
But suddenly, he had a solution for every concern.
Yes, you're too innocent of a civilian but doesn't that just make you easier to scare? To threaten? Judging by how out of your element you were, this was obviously a last ditch effort for a gig so you’re probably already tight on money and need something immediate and surefire. The worst you could do is tell. The worst they could do is kill. If they let you in on that fact, how likely are you to really do the former?
Despite whichever flavor of the week he had trailing his heels at the establishment, the next several months went on without him a missing a single one of your sets. Somewhere off in the back, cigar in hand. Without fail.
The last performance of the night. The nightcap.
You’re a star.
Although they possessed enough sense to never comment on it, both close members of the family and people at the club noticed his fondness of you.
There’s no room for romance in his life. There never has been. Especially not right now. But then you’re just… doing shit. You’re bandaging up girls backstage who don’t like you. You’re asking killers what they had for breakfast. He’s never seen anything like you.
Even after you two start sleeping together, he distracts himself with a variety of miscellaneous women to prove to himself that you aren't anything he’s hung up on. But then he’s getting drunk and accidentally calling them by your name which gets him nothing but a stinging cheek. He has a frequent tendency of dipping as soon as possible after a night with you because you dig and you dig and you dig until you make a home for yourself.
You want to know him. The real him.
You want him to know you. The real you.
He leaves when he can’t take it. He comes back when he can’t live without it.
Still, he denies himself of your sunlight.
So he stands in the dark, sucking in a lungful of cuban smoke as you slowly arch backwards from a kneel until your shoulders are flat against the cash on the floor to replicate the tempo of the sultry violin solo of the record, neon flamingo pink overcasting your slithering frame as the men hoot and holler.
You’re a star.
Bambi.
.
“Bibi!”
You shuffle between a sea of half-naked bodies backstage after your set, Marisol’s waving hand extended in the air to guide you to your seat beside her.
The dressing room is a clutter.
All the girls share one big room, the walls lined with a number of vanity tables and scattered with racks of costumes. Wigs, lotions, perfumes, brush sets, and make-up all strewn around.
In front of the warm marquee bulbs lining the vanity mirror, Marisol pauses applying an intricate layer of mascara to her bottom lashes to plant a kiss to your cheek when you sit beside her— a plethora of empty Coca Cola cans nestled in her hair as heat-less rollers for that dramatic curl effect she loves.
You smile at her and reach to pry the platform heels off your strained feet, “hi. Did you end up reaching Pricilla?”
She sighs and closes the lid on the mascara tube to shake before re-opening, “yeah. She was at her dialysis appointment. She never gets back to me when she’s at the hospital.”
Marisol is the closest thing to a friend you have at Bunny’s. A lot of the girl’s main priority is the money. They’re in and they’re out. If they want to chit chat, they’re more inclined to do so with the ones they traveled across borders with. Not the fresh face who they don’t know from a can of paint.
You don’t take it personally.
She tells you all the time how much you remind her of her little sister, Pricilla, from back home in Colombia. She takes it upon herself to take you under her wing, so to say. She teaches you the tricks of the trade, the rules of the house.
Anything you might hear in backrooms, you forget immediately.
Be as courteous to ‘friends’ of the family as possible. If they get too handsy or out of pocket, tell Jimmy.
Don’t collect your cash immediately after your set. Wait until the end of the night to collect only after the house takes their cut.
Never ask anyone what they do for a living.
Never ever talk to the law.
The last one she sternly states with a firm index finger pointed at your face for emphasis.
Over the course of your friendship, you learn she only dances to pay for Pricilla’s medical bills back in Columbia. All of Carmen’s mules are paid a one-time flat fee for transport but many of them saw dancing as a far more steady means of income. Pricilla was diagnosed with Lupus when she was just a toddler. Her health has been an uphill battle for the majority of her life, especially after the autoimmune disease required a kidney transplant of her. Marisol and her grandmother were drowning in medical debt. It wasn’t until they received a notice denying Priscilla treatment due to overdue bills that she started listening to the whispers about a local cartel member who was paying to have women fly drugs to the U.S.
The flat fee for transporting the cocaine was enough to cover the dialysis treatments for a few months, but she knew a one time payment could never cover the bills for a chronic condition. Bunny’s was the answer.
In that regard, Marisol reminds you of your late brother.
When you started working at Bunny’s, you were in the middle of the stormiest season of your life. You were grappling with the sudden loss of your only sibling, your older brother. Anthony. It was an unexpected tragedy that, if you’re honest, you still haven’t allowed yourself to fully process. Like Marisol, he worked a shitty part-time job on top of his full-time position just to help put you through school.
You hum and nod as she spritzes hairspray on the soles of her bare feet before sliding them into her purple platform heels to prevent the slip of sweat and reaching to remove the cans from her hair, “she said the transplant is scheduled for next month though, so thankfully it’ll all be over soon.”
At that moment, Jimmy’s walking into the dressing room and spots Jey off in the back flirting with one of the dancers.
“Aye.” Jimmy interrupts from the doorframe, “the back. Right now.”
You toss a curious look over your shoulder when a hush falls over the room at the sternness in his tone.
Seemingly picking up on the severe gravity of whatever seems to be going on, Jey pushes himself off the wall without sparing Lina another word before following his brother down the stairs and onto the main floor.
Carmen and Roman stand dispersed inside one of the ill-lit backrooms Jimmy leads him to. Paul hovers just behind Roman’s shoulder, arms folded in front of an impeccably pressed suit.
The tension in the room is thick as Jimmy closes the door behind him, “what’s going on?”
Paul clears his throat to repeat the news he’s just broke to the two already in the room, “I’ve just received word that one of the girls got busted at the airport an hour ago. Lucia.”
Carmen’s eyes dart between Paul and Roman’s in disbelief, “that’s impossible. We’ve been using this route for two and a half years. This has never happened before.”
Roman rubs his hand down his face as if it’d somehow quell his boiling blood. With the end of Rafael’s military stint on the horizon, this shit is the last thing he needs on his plate. He can’t have it all blow up in his face so close to the finish line, especially after two and a half year of such dominance.
To make matters worse, successful as it might’ve been, the alliance Roman created with Carmen wasn’t approved by the Don before commencing. In fact, he wasn’t made aware until months into it. A decision of such significant magnitude would naturally be exclusively enforced by the head of the family. Had it been in his father’s hands, the agreement would’ve never seen the light of day, which is precisely why Roman excluded him from the process. It was a risk he was willing to take simply because if successful, the money made from the deal would draw a such a dramatic gap between him and his brother in business savviness, it would be absurd for his father to still consider anyone but Roman to be the next Don of The Bloodline.
And unfortunately for his father, cartels are far too bloodthirsty to accept the nullification of such a beneficial partnership especially after seeing the type of money they could make off of it.
Which is precisely why those are sharks his father doesn't swim with.
He’s of the belief that the cartel and the mafia are too different to work so closely together. Under the leadership of his father, The Bloodline operates under the radar as best as possible with local politicians, lawyers, judges and authorities on their payroll to look the other way. If someone persists to be an issue to their interests, they get handled quietly.
The cartel, on the other hand, handle their conflicts with as much visibility as possible. It’s a performance. Fear is everything. They make loud examples out of people.
As a result, working with them has the potential to attract eyes and not just the local authorities that are already in their pocket. The FBI. And that’s never a good thing, especially for the mafia.
Roman is of the belief that scared money doesn’t make money. There’s been an ever-present booming demand for white powder in the region and The Bloodline simply has the state-of-the-art organizational infrastructure Carmen needs to move her product. She associates her business with an established and deeply respected mafia territory and The Bloodline gets supplied the purest Colombian cocaine on the market straight from the source for distribution. As an up-and-comer, she’d be a fucking idiot to sabotage that type of luxury in the name of ruthlessness.
And he’d rather die than prove his father right about her. About the entire alliance. Because that would mean he made a bad call.
Jey shrugs, “she could’ve been too nervous, too shifty. It could’ve rang off alarm bells for customs. Maybe not seductive enough to finess her way out of a pat-down.”
“Are you saying my guys are picking incompetent bitches?”
“I’m sayin’ they ain’t picking the cream of the crop.”
One domineering glare from Roman silences his cousin. “We’re gonna have to pause any incoming shipments through Miami International for a while. It’s too hot. Feds are gonna be all over it right now.”
Due to the several strategic layers of insulation between Carmen and the mules handpicked by her guys in Colombia, Lucia doesn’t know enough information about their operation that could implicate them directly if she decides to talk. The current transaction is simple. The women smuggle the product in via undergarments and deliver it to an individual at a vacant location in Miami disclosed to them by Carmen’s guys prior to the flight. After that, they’re gone. Never to be heard from again, unlike the era of the drug mules when she first made the deal with Roman. They’d decided if there was going to be plethora of women working at his money laundering scheme, it’d be safer for them to be women familiar with the game. So the mules who wanted to stick around after transport, stuck.
Lucia doesn’t know a lot, but she knows enough to point the feds in the right direction.
He can’t have that.
He runs his fingers through his groomed beard and glances at Carmen, “have one of your guys pay Lucia’s people a visit. No damage. Just as a reminder to her that we know where they stay.”
Carmen breathes out a humorless breath through her nose and rolls her lips into her mouth, nods. Silently irate.
Jimmy and Jey lock eyes. Paul looks at the ground.
“I’ll talk to Vincent. Make sure he’ll give us a heads up if the feds have our scent.”
When Carmen makes her way out the backroom, you’re leaning on the wall beside the door with your arms crossed, waiting for Roman. The near collision sucks a small gasp from your lungs, “sorry.”
She walks past you without a word, her eyes burning holes in you as she leaves your peripheral.
.
It’s nearing midnight when Carmen leaves her friends spot, a couple days after the airport bust.
An hour ago she received a harrowing phone call from her guys who were meant to pay Lucia’s family a visit in Bogotá, Colombia. When they got there, while still parked in the car, they reported that they saw the family be quickly escorted out the house by two Americans. Suspicion raised, her guys led a sly car tail that ended with the family being dropped off at a motel near an airport. However, due to political unrest in the city, the military had seized control of the airports and all incoming and outgoing flights were being cancelled for the short-term future.
Still, the writing was on the wall. Clear as day; Lucia had struck a deal with the feds under the circumstance that her family be expedited to the states for protection. She’s about to rat.
“Make sure they don’t leave that motel by any means. If they try, kill them.”
Carmen rushes down the stairs of the apartment and through the doors of the lower-level ran-down Chinese takeout joint that leads outside, her bandaged palm still stinging from the vindictive scotch glass she launched at the wall after the call.
Parked on the skinny sidewalk just out front is her baby blue Thunderbird convertible. Against her passenger door leans Sonny Hendrix, the bright light of the restaurant’s signage casting a vivid flush of lime green over him in an otherwise dark street.
The cigarette tucked underneath his bushy mustache tilts upward as he grins when she startles at the unexpected sight of him, “Santinooo.”
Carmen quickly assesses him and her surroundings. His satin maroon button-down tucked underneath cream slacks, the top three buttons lazily unclasped to unveil the golden cuban link on his chest. A bulky emerald ring wrapped around his pinky.
“Get off my car.”
Sonny smacks his lips like she’s offended him, except he’s still grinning. He blows out a billow of smoke, “oh c’mon. That’s no way to talk to an old friend.”
She furrows her brows and squints her eyes, “is that what we are?”
When Carmen first landed in Miami in 1978, Sonny Hendrix was one of the first major dealers she viewed as a viable buyer for her kilos. The Cuban liked the quality of her product, had the distribution channels, and had the territories, but he turned her down because he already had a supplier.
It was her third consecutive rejection from a dealer for her business, and she simply couldn't accept another ‘no.’ So she took matters into her own hands and paid some people off under the table to take care of her competition. Not too enthusiastic since they both knew it was no coincidence that his supplier was found dead in cold blood a mere three days before she was back to put in another bid, he placed a pause on their alliance negotiation to weigh out the pros and the cons.
Only, by the time he’d pushed her indiscretion to the side and accepted her deal, she’d already agreed to a far more lucrative offer made to her by Roman who’d swooped in at the very last second to make her The Bloodline’s exclusive supplier.
Leaving Sonny high and dry. Soaring demand with no supply to fulfill it.
Sonny plucks the cigarette from his mouth and sizes her up from head to toe, pretends like all has been forgiven and forgotten. “We could’ve. We still could. Be friends.”
She sighs when she realizes this is just another attempt at a poach, “I already have a buyer.”
He looks at the ground to chuckle, “and I already had a supplier. I don’t remember that stopping you.”
The crossfading engine of speeding cars through the street fills the air as Carmen stares at him for a minute. She makes her way off the curb, clearing both sides of the street while standing at the trunk of her car, before making her way to the drivers side.
He pushes himself off her passenger side door, turns to face her, and taps the ash off the butt of his cigarette. “I want you to reconsider, Carmen.”
She fumbles with her car keys to open the door, “why the hell would I do that?”
“Because I would never fake an airport seize just to squeeze you out of our deal.”
Carmen freezes, her eyes flitting up at his above the roof of her Thunderbird.
If Sonny’s honest, the alliance between Carmen and The Bloodline has created too big of a monopoly on the Miami coke market for dealers like him to compete. The money is nowhere compared to what it used to be. So what’s a more effective way to collapse a mutually beneficial alliance to gain his market share back than to divide and conquer?
Seeds of doubt are potent because after the seeds are planted, it’s nearly impossible for the mind not to kick into autopilot and subconsciously search for any clue it can find to justify or disprove these doubts— whichever ‘evidence’ present itself first. It’s a survival instinct that’ll have the brain connecting dots that don’t even exist.
Doubt breeds mistrust.
And in the drug trade, any partnership lacking in trust is a partnership that is doomed to fail.
He squints his eyes and tilts his head condescendingly, “c’mon. You’re not buying that shit, are you? You know Don Tahi is no fan of yours, and that Roman wants to be the one up next. You think it’s just a coincidence that one of your girls just so happens to get busted with his retirement just a month away?”
Carmen’s heart begins to gallop, her stomach sinking onto the concrete she stands above at the suggestion that she’s being betrayed by someone she inexplicably trusts. A set-up? In hindsight, something about the airport bust immediately didn't sit right in her gut. Could that just have been her natural intuition alerting her to the fact that she’s surrounded by venomous snakes? She’s ran a flawless smuggling operation for nearly three years with no slip-ups, what are the odds that she fucks up now out of all times?
The Bloodline also does have some local law enforcement officers on their payroll. It would be incredibly easy for them to have one of their cops tip off customs on Lucia if they wanted to, but would Roman truly go to such extreme measures just to appease his father?
It doesn’t help Carmen that Sonny Hendrix has a notorious reputation for keeping his reliable fingers on the pulse on the city’s dark underbelly. The rumor-mill. The grapevine.
He shrugs, tossing his cigarette on the concrete of the sidewalk and crushing it underneath his Italian leather loafers, “it’s genius really. He milks you for all you're worth for years to make a name for himself, and the second it’s time for his father to pick which son will take his spot, he’s throwing you under the bus.”
“Why are you telling me any of this after I fucked you over, hmm? You think I’m some idiot?”
He chuckles, lying straight through his teeth, “there’s nothing I’d love more than to see you get fucked over, but I’m a businessman before I’m vindictive and you still have the purest coke in these streets. There’s money to be made and you aren’t worth shit to me if you’re behind bars or whatever the fuck they’re planning.”
Carmen bites her lip, trying to get a read on him. The idea of Sonny extending an olive branch so he can conduct business with her is just as difficult to digest as the idea of Roman feeding her to the wolves just to appease his father and secure his position.
Sonny lowers himself to window-level when she gets inside the drivers seat, the engine of her 1975 Ford Thunderbird roaring to life. “These streets have eyes, mi amor. More than you think. You need me just as much as I need you. Be smart.”
After he hops into his vehicle and rips out into the main street, with her nose flaring and chest heaving, Carmen yells out a booming ‘FUCK!’ into the void of her car in a fit of rage.
.
Don Tahi is hunched over the luxurious bar cart in his office, pouring himself a glass of 1910 Bourbon, when Roman walks past the squeaky threshold of dark grain without a word.
The entire estate is still. Silent. Solemn.
The passing of Roman’s grandfather wasn’t unexpected. Old age is a blessing, especially in this life they lead.
His father turns around when he hears the door close, a glass of golden liquid in his hand.
Roman takes a seat on one of the brown leather seats in front of the desk his father’s leaning against, rubs his eye with his index finger. “I, uh. I just met with Vincent Lockewood.”
He nods once, “good.”
Roman’s jaw clenches, “I’m gonna clean this up, dad.”
He takes a sip of the aged Bourbon. Shakes his head and juts out his bottom lip, “that’s not why I called you here.”
Roman pauses, nods. When he was summoned to the house by Paul, he was under the impression that it’d have something to do with the Lucia issue. A judgmental eye. A passive aggressive line of questioning. An unnecessary comment. How it would’ve never happened on his brother’s watch.
The more he looks at his father, the more introspective he seems to be. That’s to no surprise. Don Tahi Anoa’i is a man of few words. Few is needed when your mere name strikes fear in the hearts of mortal men like his does. When your men spill blood like it’s paint, like his does.
The crows feet at his eyes indicative of years of wisdom.
Indicative of years of dominance.
“Your grandfather asked one thing of me last night. I gave him my word.”
Roman blinks at the ground, “what about?”
“Mom.”
His mother was something of a folktale growing up. A figment of his imagination, almost. After her suicide shortly after Roman was born, his father had the estate scrubbed clean of her existence from floor to ceiling. No picture albums. No portraits. No memorabilia except for the wedding band his father keeps on his ring finger at all times.
It was an accepted, spoon-fed explanation that her suicide was just the tragic end of a life long battle with mental illness and it was looked down upon for the boys to ever even ask about her.
However, Don Tahi is a traditional man who is of the belief that requests made by loved ones on their death bed are to be honored and upheld to the highest degree. In spite of the damage it can cause. Damage it will cause.
His father takes a deep breath before beginning, “Maeve fell into a deep pit of postpartum after having Rafael. It was horrible. She didn’t want to be anywhere near him. She’d cry when he’d cry. She wouldn’t sleep. It got so bad that she left us for her mother’s in the middle of the night for an entire month.”
“I hired some help around the house while she was gone to look after him while I was out. A… a woman named Rose. Nothing happened between us that I was ever proud of while mom was away. When she came back, I got her medicated. We found a normal.”
He takes a swig, his eyes distant like he’s there all over again. “I’d found out later that I’d gotten Rose pregnant. She was pregnant. With you.”
Roman’s eyes dart around his fathers somber features for a rare indication of jest, the pounding pitter-patter of his heart rushing through the tunnels of his warm ears when he finds none.
His father’s chuckle is bitter. Humorless. “A man is not a real man if he deserts his family. I did so while my wife’s womb was still sore and she took her life over it. My lust killed her.”
In this life, having blood on his hands is customary in every sense of the word. Hopping out of black trucks with the blood of his adversaries smeared against the white button ups beneath dark suits, he wears it like a badge of honor. A tiger that’s earned his stripes. But there’s something particularly devastating about the blood on his hands he can’t wash off belonging to the love of his life.
She haunts the hall of this estate in a white sundress, waking him up in the middle of the night to a cold sweat.
Roman’s chest heaves, his palm inconspicuously gripping the leather armrest to maintain his composure. He shakes his head and breathes out a laugh of disbelief through his nose. The last piece of the world’s most cryptic puzzle falling from the sky and landing onto the board to reveal a much, much larger picture. His entire life he’s been outcasted by his father, because of his own action?
“Why’d you lie? About who she was.”
His glass clinks against the wood of the desk he’s leaning against when he sets it down, “because no matter who your mother is, you’re still my son. Nothing can change that.”
Eyes full of flames glare at his father, “would you change that, if it meant she’d still be here?”
“Nothing can change that.”
Paul coincidently knocks on the door and peers in to deliver the news that a family friend has stopped by with flowers to send their condolences for their loss.
It’s not lost on him that his father didn’t answer his question.
.
A pair of angry fists banging on your apartment door jolt you out of your sleep in the middle of the night.
It’s three A.M and rain is pelting the windows of your bedroom. Still in a sleepy daze, you sit up on your mattress until the pounding starts up again and sends you rushing off your bed toward the source of the commotion.
Pink eyes zero in on you after you swing the door open as quickly as possible to prevent the noise from disturbing your next door neighbors any further so late into the night.
“Jesus Christ, Roman. I’ve been calling you all ni-”
“Where were you?”
You frown when he brushes past you, the subtle stinging scent of alcohol trailing behind him. “What?”
He turns towards you when you shut the door, his biceps straining against the fabric of his shirt as he crosses his arms in the middle of your kitchen. “After your second set tonight. Where were you?”
Upon realizing what exactly he’s referring to, you roll your lips into your mouth and slightly shrink under his heated gaze.
He’s made a few offhanded comments in the past, usually under the serene refuge of your duvet after a punishing round of sex, about how he doesn’t want you giving any private dances. His possessiveness doesn't allow him the leeway to see it as purely an opportunity to make more cash, as you so often argue.
You thought his absence at Bunny’s tonight would allow it to go unnoticed, but he made it a point to ask about you when out at the bar with his cousin a couple hours after visiting his father.
“You think because you’re fucking the boss, you don’t have to listen to what I tell you to do at my own club, huh?”
Your brows furrow, slightly taken aback by the fire in his eyes. You’re not the type that does too well with any type of confrontation but frankly, despite the love you have for him, you two have never been serious enough for you to take any personal request of his —least of all during pillow talk— too seriously. Especially as it relates to work.
“You’re not being fair, Roman.”
He roars, “nothing in this life is fucking fair!”
You jump, unable to help the tears that well up in your eyes at his deeply abrasive tone. It’s a pavlovian response. Suddenly you’re that little girl again. Your dad comes home late, drunk and irate. Except this time, your brother can’t protect you from an unforgiving wrath.
He glares at you down the sharp line of his nose, “since you're not gonna obey me at my spot, you can start looking for somewhere else to work.”
You blink a few times and shake your head, “…what? Roman… you know I need this job.”
The private dance isn’t a big issue by any means. He usually doesn’t care about how you choose to conduct yourself at Bunny’s. Certainly not enough for him to fire you over it. You both know who you belong to, labels be damned. But Roman has a self-preserving tendency of becoming extremely sensitive when he’s already hurt. In the same way a punch to the torso is infinitely more painful if there’s a preexisting bruise.
If he were to lift his shirt up right now, he’d be nothing but black and blue. And he’ll bleed all over you, even if wasn’t you that did the real damage.
Under an exterior of brick and stone, his heart squeezes in on itself as you cry.
You sniffle, “don’t make it seem like I broke protocol or something. You just don’t want me dancing on other men, which I can do because we aren’t together. It’s not business at a-all. It’s personal. You’re being cruel.”
Three soft knocks against your door sends the knuckles of your fingers sweeping against your waterline to clear your vision. When you turn on your heels and look through the peephole, your next door neighbor —an elderly woman named Mrs. Wynette who always lends you missing recipe ingredients— stands concerned on the other side in a bonnet, a silk eye mask pushed up onto her forehead.
Once you open the door, Mrs. Wynette looks past you and at the big brooding man in all black standing in your kitchen. She leans in towards you and whispers, “are you okay honey? Should I call the police?”
You sniffle and shake your head, tell her no. After she goes back into her apartment with a little more persuasion on your end, you close the door and take a deep breath.
Your voice is shaky, “get out.”
He blinks, chewing on the side of his cheek pointedly.
“Get out. You’re clearly angry and in search of someone to victimize to make yourself feel better but I’m not gonna be your punching bag. I’ve never done anything to deserve that. Least of all from you.”
Jimmy told you about the loss of his grandfather tonight, and although no one knows that grief has the power to do unimaginable things more than you, that doesn’t mean you’ll allow yourself to be the subject of his onslaught.
Definitely not over something so insignificant.
And that does him in, because you’re right. His shoulders fall, “shit. I’m sorry baby. I’m sorry.” He’s walking towards you in three steps before engulfing you in a tight embrace, his own eyes glassy because he’s made you cry.
For some reason, his admission of guilt makes you even more emotional. You muffle your sobs into his abdomen, “I’ve been c-calling you nonstop all night. I was so worried about you.”
You wrap your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist when he lifts you into the air on his way to your sofa, “Shh. I know. I know. I’m okay, It’s okay.”
It takes twenty minutes for the both of you to calm down and an additional forty-five for him to explain the series of events that led him to your front door. His grandfather. His death bed request. His father’s confession. His mother. Drinks with Jimmy.
Your glare, although zoned out, is aimed at your TV. You lie on his chest, the gentle inflation and deflation of your bellies synchronized.
“Did he tell you where she is now? Your mom?”
“Didn’t ask. Don’t care.” He sighs through his nose, his fingers mindlessly tracing circles on the back of your sheer pink nightgown with his eyes on the ceiling, “it all makes sense now, at least.”
Your eyes lock when you lift your head up, “that doesn’t make it right. His shortcoming’s as a husband aren't your burden to bear. You understand that, right? He’s a horrible father. You didn’t deserve that.”
Although he doesn’t reply, it feels really good to have someone else recognize it and say it out loud. Really fucking good, validating. Like being victim to the world’s most heinous, elusive crime just to find out someone else saw it happen too. At the same time, it coming from you makes him feel worse. Even after he puts you through the ringer with his bullshit and lack of emotional regulation, you still have it within yourself to empathize with him. Even though he doesn’t deserve it.
When shit gets too heavy, he runs his hands under your short nightgown and a smirk carves into the edge of his lips once all he feels is soft skin and nothing else by your hip. “Mm. You knew I was coming.”
He chuckles and catches your playful swat before it can land. “Say it.”
“No. I didn’t.” You didn’t, but you play along.
He runs his hands over the flesh of your supple bare ass and his purposeful touch draws arousal to your unclothed core, “no?”
You shake your head.
In a matter of eleven minutes, you're mewling over the armrest as he slides his big dick in and out of you in measured strokes of his hips. The material of your thin gown is folded up towards your lower back and the bottom of his tee is bitten between his teeth before he discards it with one hand altogether.
He watches as your wet pussy slathers his shaft in a glistening layer of arousal with every tight stroke, “mm. Fuck. Talk to me.”
Your breath catches, grabbing at the armrest like there’s a sheet you can grab onto like you usually do on the bed as he pushes in as far as he can go and gyrates his hips against yours. He squirms his hand under you and rubs your swollen clit with his middle and index finger.
You moan out a desperate, dripping yes and flutter your eyes shut as his hips lose its decorum. The previous yelling and arguing in the apartment replaced by the wet squelch of him inside your leaking, creamy pussy. “That feels… s-so good. Oh.”
Every delicious stroke pushes you closer and closer to your end, the precipice so close you can practically see the stars behind your eyelids as you drool on the armrest.
“Keeping Daddy so snug in there. Gonna make me bust.” He mumbles in your ear as you whine, your eyes rolling back when his fat dick rubs against your g-spot. He begins pounding, careless to your pathetic cries as you coat him in a layer of white cream.
Your voice is a whisper like it’s a secret, “I’m so close. I’m… I’m gonna come.”
“Where? Tell me.”
“I’m… I’m gonna come all over your dick.”
Your jaw slowly parts on the armrest as he works it out you, his length rubbing past your snug walls in delicious creamy thrusts until your legs stiffen up and your orgasm blows right through you, “that’s my girl. Give it to me.”
“Fffuugh,” fire shoots through your limbs as you ride the wave, your siphoning walls sucking on his dick with such intensity that he has to throw himself off you to spill his come on the skin of your ass.
When you both float down from your high on the sofa, he’s picking you up and lying you down on your bed where he cleans you up with a warm rag— cheekily applying a little too much pressure on your clit which earns him another swat to the shoulder. When he returns from the bathroom, he gets into bed with you and stares at the ceiling as you fall asleep with your head on his chest.
.
The silver of Sonny’s fork scrapes against the ceramic of his plate when he stabs the waffles on his plate and shoves it into his mouth.
Carmen turns her head to glance out the window. The entire diner is a fishbowl. Instinctively, that makes her nervous. She’s been very nervous recently.
The intense white gleam of the sun’s ray penetrating through the glass window forces her to revert her attention back to the man downing the glass of orange juice in the booth in front of her.
“I don’t trust you.” The chomp of his molars slows when she begins— her Colombian accent layered on thick, “but I trust them even less.”
Her last interaction with Sonny put her as close to the edge as possible, but equipped her with clarity and context she feels gave her a leg up in the grand scheme of things. Although it is not a hill she’s willing to die on just yet, her antennas have undeniably shot up. From that night forward, she’s navigated every single conversation and exchange with Roman and his cousins with a heightened sense of awareness— keeping note of anything that could be interpreted as questionable or perceived as deceptive.
So a major red flag was raised when she arrived at a scheduled meeting to discuss the several urgent updates she had regarding the Lucia situation just to find out, for the first time ever, Roman was absent. She found it extremely strange that someone so important to the core operation as she is would suddenly be left to meet with lower-ranking members of The Bloodline’s chain of command, but the gesture also put a chilling sense of foreshadowing in the pit of her stomach. In the same way a supervisor that just keeps lightening your workload points to your imminent termination if you have just enough discernment to read the room.
Seeds of doubt are potent because after the seeds are planted, it’s nearly impossible for the mind not to kick into autopilot and subconsciously search for any clue it can find to justify or disprove these doubts— whichever ‘evidence’ present itself first. It’s a survival instinct that’ll have the brain connecting dots that don’t even exist.
Frankly, way too much shit is happening that’s never happened before for it all to be just one big fat coincidence.
That’s reason enough to burn the bridge, before it burns her.
“You want me to be your supplier? I want you at Bunny’s every night. All of their guys hang out there. Anything you see or hear that’s out of the ordinary, whether it’s at the club or not, you tell me. Once everything settles down, we have a deal.”
His haunting sentiment, “these streets have more eyes than you think” has been spinning in the confines of her ears like a vintage vinyl record since he said it that night. His historical track record in mind, having eyes and ears at the club to report to her at a time like this would be nothing short of an asset.
Unfortunately for her, the ‘eyes’ Sonny speaks of is a very valuable source on the inside tucked in his back-pocket that, much like him, wants to see the alliance between The Bloodline and Carmen burst into flames. A source that feeds him information that they then manipulate to facilitate their agenda before he delivers it to Carmen.
Sonny huffs out a laugh through his nose, one cheek full of food, “and how do I know you’re gonna follow through? I mean, you’d think I learned my lesson the first time around with you.”
Two minutes later, she’s slamming down the trunk of her Thunderbird parked behind the diner and shoving one plastic-wrapped brick of white powder against his chest. She sighs and places her hands on her hips, “my guys had eyes on the family of the girl who got busted at the airport. Lucia. I told them not to let them leave their sight, but there’s been a mix-up.”
One of the most urgent updates Carmen was preparing to share with Roman before she reached a screeching halt due to his suspicious absence was the massacre at the motel in Bogotá.
Operating on revolving shifts during the stakeout, two new guys were on rotation when it happened. Parked a safe distance away from the motel to prevent any suspicion, they fell asleep during the lookout. When one of the guys happened to awake near 1 A.M., a young woman was rushing out the room the previous men said harbored Lucia’s folks in a hurry.
He opened gunfire immediately.
In a matter of seconds, whizzing bullets, smoking guns, horrified screams, and shattering glass penetrate the still night. The feds, in the motel room just next door, return the fire through the window when they hear the commotion outside— the exchange resulting in the homicide of both of Carmen’s guys and the young woman lying lifeless on the concrete at the bottom of the staircase.
The young woman, she would soon find out, was not a member of Lucia’s family at all. In fact, the victim would later be identified as Priscilla Baez. Marisol’s sister.
Sonny sticks a cigarette into his mouth, “Marisol?”
“She’s a dancer. One of my original mules. I want you to keep an eye on her too. Our records show she isn’t related to Lucia but I don’t know why she has ties close enough to her for her sister to know what motel her family’s staying at before they leave the country.”
Sonny blinks, lighting the cigarette. “Where are you going with this, Santino?”
“The feds fled the motel with Lucia’s people after the shooting. My people can’t locate them. They’ve probably been flown in to the states and into witness protection as apart of some deal they’re making her by now, which means Lucia has no reason not to start talking to the feds. We just lost our leverage. I haven’t told Roman and the twins any of this, I decided against it when Roman didn’t show up to one of our meetings. You just asked me how you can trust that I’ll follow through on my promise this time. Well now you have a kilo of the best coke on the market that you can sell, no strings attached, and information that’ll get me killed point blank if you take it to Roman.”
He takes a drag of the cigarette while glancing at the thick brick of cocaine in his other hand. In a far simpler world, he would’ve gotten back to her quicker than Roman did. It would’ve saved him all this trouble. Now it has to go this way and this way only, because the only way he can regain his market share is by destroying their partnership and the only way she’ll discard of the partnership is under the belief that the risk is no longer worth the reward.
“It’s only a matter of time before they find out that her people weren’t taken care of, y’know. They’ve got friends in high places.”
“Which is why the sooner we figure out what they’re planning and intercept it, the better.”
She sticks out her palm, and after blowing a grey cloud of tobacco into the air, he’s slapping his palm against hers for a firm shake to seal the deal.
ONE NIGHT, A FEW WEEKS LATER.
Bunny’s is jumping tonight in particular.
The thunderous tempo of the sultry music becomes unmuffled for everyone around the block to hear with every patron that swings the heavy front door open for entry. On a busy night like tonight, Jey would typically make his rounds but something has caught his eye.
“Say, uce.”
Jey leans onto the bar, lazily throws up an index finger towards the bartender to signal an order for his usual, and turns his head to the man on his right. “You sure do like it ‘round here, don’t you?”
Sonny’s frequent visits seemingly haven’t gone unnoticed. Although there’s nothing glaringly odd about a repeating customer, especially when the product selection is as sublime as Bunny’s is, when the fact that the most regulars that populate dark corner booths of the strip club are members or close friends of the family is taken into account, someone as unfamiliar as Sonny begins to stick out of the crowd.
Sonny shrugs, two swollen cheeks of Tequila behind a disarming grin before it cruises down his esophagus with a burn. “I’m a loyal customer, what can I say?”
Jey, unimpressed, repeats the sentiment to gauge how it feels on his tongue. “A loyal customer.”
Carmen maneuvers herself into the interaction as soon as possible when she spots Jey approaching Sonny from across the room. Her presence at the club used to be few and far between, usually far more often comfortable with the family take care of their own turf, “I take it the two of you have met.”
Jey picks up the glass of Gin and tonic the bartender slides him, eyeing Carmen as he brings the cocktail to his mouth for a sip.
“This must be that hospitality they speak of Santino. Top-shelf.”
“Jey, this is Sonny. He’s an old friend of mine.”
Jey casually sizes Sonny up as he digs into his pocket and pulls out a Marlboro cigarette from it’s red pack. He pushes himself off the bar and nods once, dropping it. He points at the cig with his drink, “don’t light that shit in here.”
Carmen exhales a tense breath when he walks out of earshot while Sonny tucks his Marlboro’s back into his pocket. Hyper-aware of all the eyes in the room that could be on them at this exact moment, she’s cautious in her movements. Her eyes still on Jey’s back as he makes his way to his brother, “don’t provoke him. He’s a hothead.”
She watches with subtle, but growing intrigue as Roman suddenly appears at the end of the dark hall, seemingly returning from either one of the backrooms or his office the narrow path leads to. Initially, his herculean build presents the facade that he’s on his own, but when he turns the corner, you appear behind him with your hand locked in his.
It’s the first time she notices it. That there’s something there.
His whisper in your ear. The smile on your face as you climb up the short stairs of the side stage, your hand finally leaving his before you disappear into the curtains leading to the backstage dressing room.
All in discretion, but not discreet enough.
Later on in the night, Jey and Jimmy are stood in the hall lining the private rooms.
“That’s what I’m saying. But aye—,” with their backs against opposing walls, the twins watch as Marisol suddenly rushes out of one of the private rooms. Seconds later, Sonny walks out behind her and looks between Jey and Jimmy before sticking his hands in his pockets and walking out onto the main floor.
.
An army of black trucks litter the front yard once the chauffeur cruises into the long driveway of Don Tahi’s estate. From your window view, the estate looks more like a french château than anything else— a graceful fountain planted in the center of the beige pavement rounded by vines.
Once the truck curves around the fountain, you and Roman step out. You take a deep sigh and readjust the tie peeking from under his wool coat, “ready?”
He nods, his bottom lip bitten. He interlocks your fingers and leads the way up the stairs and into the house.
There’s a sea of people scattered around every corner of the property as soon as you two walk in, all of which are dressed in varying shades of black. People from all over approach him to pay their respect and share their condolences for his loss. There’s earnest honor and admiration in the way everyone seems to be addressing him in as the presumed next Don of the family.
When you find your presence inappropriate for certain intimate conversations about his grandfather, you lightly pull your arm away so you can give the family members their privacy, but he just tugs you closer and squeezes your hidden hand twice in reassurance.
Once he finishes making his rounds, he catches sight of his father talking to a group of men. One of them, his brother-in-law. Wesley.
He leans into your ear and points, “there’s Marisol, baby. I’ll be right back.”
You nod and part ways. He to his father and uncle, and you to Marisol beside the grand piano.
A pair of black glasses sit atop her pink-tinted nose to conceal her swollen eyes. You suggested Roman invite her to the wake upon hearing news of her sister’s sudden death because you didn’t want her to mourn on her own. Not when she could be with a plethora of others experiencing that same grief she currently is. You also just didn’t want her to be alone.
“...can’t believe his tour ends next month.”
His father nods, “he’s been stationed in Lebanon. It’s done him good, I’d bet. More disciplined. Structured, you know. Grit. Prepared him.”
“There he is! Roman! How are you, son?” Wesley, obnoxious as ever, pulls Roman into a hug when he approaches the group of older men.
The tail end of the conversation he walks in on makes his ear perk up. There’s no doubt in his mind that his father is beating the dead horse that is his older brother but he expects nothing less by now. It’s as if he actively seeks disappointment. He can believe Rafael’s military stint is grooming him to be a great leader with all his heart, that changes nothing about the fact that Rafael’s disinterest in becoming the Don is unwavering.
“Good. Everything’s good. How about you? How’s the family?”
“Ahh. He’s humble. That’s important.” Wesley says to the other men. They all laugh in tandem. Roman grins.
“Lemme talk to you.” Wesley ticks his head to the side, a signal that he wants to speak elsewhere. They both step a short distance from the group with Wesley’s hand on his shoulder.
“Hey. What you’re doing for the family, it’s no small feat. Hear? You’re making us real proud.”
He nods, “thank you, Wes.”
“Now.” Both men take turns looking over their shoulder at the group behind them. Don Tahi’s peering over at them. Wesley nods politely before looking back at Roman, “I need something from you.”
Roman’s eyebrows pinch in earnest. One of the most infamous things about Wesley De Santis is that in the sixty year long friendship he’s had with Don Tahi and even deeper ties his father had with Roman’s grandfather, is that the De Santis’ have never once asked The Bloodline for a favor.
If there’s one thing he’s learned from his father, it’s that they always take care of their own, “say the word.”
“Apparently, the more coke people take at the disco, the longer they’re on the dance floor. It’s doing wonders for my bar sales too. I mean, it’s fucking insane.” Wesley cackles, “I need it in bulk. For sole distribution at a string of my clubs in Miami, Tampa, Daytona, and West Palm Beach. What do you think?”
“You’ll never be able to say I’ve never done anything for you.”
Wesley guffaws, patting him on the back. “Attaboy! Wonderful. Alright. I’ll be in touch. Thank you, son.”
Wesley returns to his cluster of uncles in pristine suits and Roman turns to scan the room in search of his cousins to get them up to speed on Wesley’s request, but his eyes just land on his approaching father instead. He shakes his head subtly, “you brought a stripper to your grandfathers wake? C’mon. What’s the matter with you?”
“Dad.”
“What? Is she not a stripper at Bunny’s? What is she? A ‘dancer?’ Oh please.”
Deciding against making a scene at the wake, Roman sighs and keeps his mouth shut.
His father shrugs and looks around, “I’m just saying. Have some respect for your grandfather. Jesus. Keep your burners off the property.”
“She’s not a burner. Stop.”
Don Tahi turns towards him, “she’s not a— what? So you love her?”
Roman runs his hand through his groomed beard, looks at the ground.
His shortcoming’s as a husband aren't your burden to bear. You understand that, right? He’s a horrible father. You didn’t deserve that.
A symphony of laughter that arises from the group of men around Wesley captures his fathers attention and reroutes him back to what he came to inquire about in the first place, “what’d he say to you?”
“He asked for a bulk supply of coke for his clubs.”
His father blinks twice, his lips parting in disbelief for a second. His eyes dart from Wes and then back to his son, “a favor? ”
“Yeah.”
“Can you pull that off?”
“I’d have to convince Carmen for a port shipment because of the volume he’s asking for, but it can be done.”
For so many years, Don Tahi has felt deeply indebted to Wesley De Santis. Not only do the De Santis’ have a decades-long history of ties with the family, but Wesley was the man who stepped up to grant him permission for his sister’s hand in marriage due to their absent father. The gnawing guilt over the circumstances surrounding her eventual suicide has weighed on his shoulder like cinderblocks as it relates to Wesley. He lost Maeve too.
His father puts his palm over his mouth before pointing at his chest with his brows raised, speaking with sudden conviction, “I don’t care what it takes. Make this happen, son.”
Roman slowly nods, watching as his father nods and walks away. A foreign sense of pride welling deep within his chest at the first ever sentiment that his father trusts that he has the capability to bring something so important to fruition.
.
“A port shipment?”
Sonny nods, working a ball of saccharine bubblegum between his teeth with his back against Carmen’s Thunderbird as she paces back and forth in the parking lot of a vacant Bunny’s.
He regurgitates the information he was fed by his source, only warped to fit the mold of his incredibly selfish and self-serving narrative. A deceptive game of telephone, “it’s why they tipped the cops off on Lucia. They needed a reason to convince you to change routes, from the airport to a port dock, but it’s a set-up. The second the cargo ship hits the dock, the feds are in there like swimwear.”
The mental image of a swarm of armed federal agents appearing from the shadows and surrounding her and a cargo container full of contraband she gets sent to supervise plagues her like a premonition, “why not just cut me out our deal? Why the feds?”
“They know you’d react just as violently to either. Sacrificing you also gets the feds off the R.I.C.O case they’ve been building on the family, buys them time. You’re a much bigger fish to the D.E.A as an international trafficker than they are. Reagan’s War on Drugs n’ shit.”
She stops pacing and nods at the ground. First Lucia and now this? It’s like they’re escalating from small busts and gradually increasing in size and magnitude, leaving the D.E.A a Carmen Santino shaped easter egg scavenger hunt.
He digs into his pockets and hands her a Marlboro cigarette when she asks for one. She sticks it into her mouth and covers the flame of the lighter with her palm, watching with the eyes of a hawk as a cherry red Chevrolet Monte Carlo peels into the lot.
The swing of the drivers side door precedes two legs clad in denim daisy dukes over a tight, ribbed white tee. A head full of voluptuous curls temporarily conceal your identity until you step out entirely with a cold can of Pepsi in your hand to cool you down in this Miami heat. You pluck out your work bag from your backseat and head to the doors with the keys you were given to open up, your palm over your eyes to shield them from the harsh sunlight.
Carmen takes a deep drag of the cigarette and blindly tosses the lighter into her car through the open passenger window, her hooded eyes piercing holes in your back. In all the years she’s spent at the club, she’s never once actually seen Roman get involved with any woman from the roster. She doubts that he never has, but if he has, he’s been clever enough to make sure it’s gone undetected and under the radar.
She can’t help but assume you’re an anomaly because you began requesting PDA out of frustration from being hidden in the dark like many of the women on the roster who surely came before you, a bid he would only agree to if you two were in an advanced stage of romance. Or, and more interestingly, maybe the show of affection wasn’t a show at all and rather pure muscle memory from months and months of repetition and familiarity in the confines of your own privacy. Which still points to an even more serious relationship between you two.
All in all, makes you the prime candidate to pay for his transgressions, which doesn't stray far at all from Carmen’s tactical approach of violent retaliation by targeting the loved ones of her offenders.
And this time, unlike the blunder with Lucia’s people in another country where she had to rely on the men who work beneath her to execute, you happen to be right here under her nose for her to handle personally.
A billow of tobacco smoke spills out red-tinted, pursed lips as the front door of the club closes behind you. “If he wants war, he’s got it.”
ONE MONTH AND A HALF LATER.
24 HRS BEFORE THE SHIPMENT ARRIVES.
The pulsing music from the main floor gets drowned out by the laughter and chitter chatter coming from the dressing room once you wrap up your last set of the night and part the curtains to walk backstage. You’re plucking out the rolled-up bills that patrons tucked from under the string of your panties at your hip, unrolling them, and stacking the wrinkled cash flat on the palm of your hand as you walk in.
“Bibi!”
Lina and the other girls turns their upper body around in their chair to face you when your reflection passes the threshold of the dressing room in her mirror, a messy grin on her face as she unfurls a question that’s been the hilarious topic of conversation amongst the girls for the past fifteen minutes, “out of all our regulars, which one of them is the ickiest?”
You scrunch your face up at the question and chuckle as you’ve had your fair share of patrons who can’t seem to keep their grubby ass hands to themselves both on the floor and during private dances in the past. You take your seat, “umm. I don’t know. No one gets too touchy. That one guy, Jax, maybe.”
She rolls her eyes in jest and shakes her head at your answer as it ruins the amusing streak of responses crowning Sonny as the consensus pick. She spins back around in her seat and begins to unclasp her earrings before sending Jey, who has a front row seat to the drama leaning against her vanity, a discreet jab regarding the big question mark on their relationship status. “She doesn’t count. They all know she’s Roman’s girl.”
The smile on your face fizzles out once you turn to the right of you. With the exception of a couple bare necessities, what used to be Marisol’s vanity has been wiped clean. What happened to Priscilla threw her so far off her equilibrium, she came to the conclusion that tomorrow night would be her last shift since she had no reason to continue at Bunny’s seeing as the entire reason she worked here to begin with was her sister’s medical bills.
Lina babbles mindlessly, patting her brush against the lid of the palette to remove the excess powder after airily rubbing it in the small worn plate of pink blush, “you know, it is kind of weird that Carmen even lets Sonny around here so often considering everything that’s happened between them.”
Jey uncrosses his arms against his chest to pluck off a piece of lint he spots on his pants, his brows furrowed. “What you mean? Ain’t they been friends?”
She scoffs, “friends? Carmen got Sonny’s supplier killed so she could be the replacement before leaving him in the dust for you guys all those years ago. There was bad blood between them for a very long time. Not anymore, apparently.”
The distant memory of him lighting a fire under Sonny’s ass for his sudden interest in Bunny’s and Carmen coming to his defense under the guise of a faithful friendship runs through his dome like a current of electricity. Since that night, even though he was vouched for, there’s still been something deep within him that just won’t stop nagging him about Sonny. Although he was willing to give it a rest, it’s a lot harder to let go of a long-standing speculation when an unbiased third party presents information that contradicts the cosign that let Sonny slide in the first place.
The creak of the vanity table when he lifts his weight off it and the deep fold between his eyebrows is proof of his growing alarm, “how you know that?”
Simply ‘getting over’ bad blood with someone who surely cost you up to seven figures in lost coke revenue is nearly unheard of. A dealer wouldn’t let shit like that just slide. Not only that, but Carmen gave him the green light to kick it around here as frequently as he does knowing their sour history, all without running everything by the family that owns said club? Something in the water isn’t right and he isn’t going to to ignore his gut any longer.
A hush falls over the entire dressing room like a blanket. Lina picks up on the sense that she’s talking too much and shrinks in her chair, a nervous huff spilling from her nose as a temperature check before rebounding with an unsure smile, “I used to date one of Sonny’s guys but I… I thought you guys knew about that.”
In the backroom, Roman is seated at the head of the elongated mahogany table with his eyes closed— his thumb and index finger pinching the bridge of his nose in agitation after he gets the run-down. “Why didn’t you tell me about this when it happened? Why didn’t either of you tell me about this, huh?”
Jimmy cuts in to defend Jey’s decision to keep the conversation between he, Sonny, and Carmen at the bar to himself, “uce, she vouched for him! We ‘posed to be able to trust her!”
“No, you’re supposed to trust ME! You run it by ME. Who and what we trust? That’s MY call. That’s what got us up here, at the top of the food chain. This family runs Miami because of MY calls. Now look. We’re in this shit cause y'all thought y'all knew better than ME.”
The twins keep their eyes on the surface of the table. Jimmy sighs, “man. It could still be nothing uce.”
Roman wants to believe that. Because if this is nothing, then in forty-eight hours, he’ll be at Rafael’s homecoming get-together that his father is hosting at his estate after just delivering Wesley’s shipment where his father will be formally announcing him as the family’s next Don. But before he can celebrate, he has to iron out this little kink. “That doesn’t make any sense. None of this makes any sense. Why would two people with bad blood suddenly be buddy buddy? That’s not nothing.”
After a minute, Paul pipes up from behind Roman. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend, sir.”
Roman turns to his side to peer over at his consilerge, “you think they have a common enemy.”
Jey erupts like a volcano, “we the common enemy, uce! She planted him here. She had to. That’s why she vouched for him when I pressed him about always kicking it here.”
Lina, who Jey called in to recount what she relayed to him to Roman directly, cuts in to cosign Jey’s testimony. “Sonny is very well known for being well-connected and vigilant. I remember Lucas telling me about how he likes to keep his ear on the ground.”
Roman’s eyes dart from Jey to Lina, his hands running down his chin. If this is all true, for reasons he doesn't have enough time to speculate at the moment, it all points an arrow to one bright red conclusion that flashes like a hazard light; she doesn’t trust them anymore.
And that’s treacherous water to be in.
The heavy, metallic symphony of guns being assembled in tandem fills the room before being shoved under waists. The manhunt he orders is broad and requires all hands on deck, including the associates that work under the twins. Ever since she green lit the shipment, Carmen has been difficult to get a hold of. It has never been much of an issue since she’s around when it counts, but important questions have been presented tonight that require answers; both from her and her friend. By any means necessary, and as soon as possible.
So a sea of black trucks swim through the streets of Little Havana in the late hours of the night, on the prowl with their hands gripped tight around metal above bouncing knees.
2 HOURS BEFORE THE SHIPMENT ARRIVES.
The search the prior night spanned for several hours into the morning before leading to dead end after dead end. No one had seen nor heard from either of the two. Not even Lina’s ex, who they had her contact through a tapped phone as they tuned in without his knowledge over her shoulder with arms crossed over their chests. Still, the hunt wasn’t called off until Roman decided that the effort was futile and that it’d just be smarter to pay Vincent, the local crooked chief of police they have on their payroll, a visit the very next day to do some digging and see if they can come across anything that might provide any answers.
Except as the next evening rolls around and they’re all piling into the car to leave for Vincent’s, Paul’s rushing out of the estate and yelling out something they can’t make sense of due to his distance to stop them from leaving. As he get closer, Roman takes notice of how his sight seems to be tunneled in on him and steps out from the driver’s seat.
“Sir. I just received a call.” He catches his breath, a hand on his chest due to the exertion. “It’s Bambi. She’s been attacked.”
When he finds out that you’re at home, he quickly instructs Jimmy to assume Carmen’s position and oversee the shipment drop-off at the dock tonight and tells Jey to go to Vincent’s on his own; tossing him a final reminder to call him using your number when he finds something useful over the sound of his engine rumbling to life before he’s cutting unruly speed across town to get to you.
He takes the stairs of your complex three at a time in a hurry, his heart falling into his stomach when you open the door for him and his sight immediately lands on the angry purple bruise marring your left eye along with a variety of scattered, much smaller marks of foul play.
He huffs out a strained breath when you wince and turn away once he grabs your face, refusing to meet his eye either due to pain, shame, embarrassment, or a blend of all three, “what happened?”
Your voice is as small as a mouse, “I don’t know. It was from behind, in the apartment parking lot last night.”
There’s no doubt in his mind about who’s responsible for this. If anything, this just completely solidifies the theory that they’re indeed the common enemy shared between Carmen and Sonny from suspicion to fact. Yet, none of that shit does anything to quell the storm brewing within him.
He paces back in forth in your living room, the back of the hand wrapped around his gun pressed against his mouth as he pictures an array of creative ways to murder the twins for withholding information that proves to be more and more vital as time passes. “I’m gonna kill them. I’m gonna fucking kill them. This is their fault—”
“Roman—”
“If only they’d told me—”
“Baby stop.”
“It would’ve never gotten this far. I would’t have let it get this—”
“Roman.”
“What?” he stops pacing to bark, “what do you what me to say, huh? That this is my fault? That this would’ve never involved you if I could control myself around you at the club? I fucking know that. I know.”
The two of you have tried to be as elusive as possible at work ever since getting more serious, but there has definitely been times when he’s thrown caution to the wind and bent to the will of his impulses. A sneaky kiss in the shadows of the backstage curtain during a show, you clearing the hall before tip-toeing out his office after a quick but delicious orgasm. He thought you two were doing well flying under the radar, but obviously not.
Sometime, somewhere— they’d seen.
You shake your head, “pointing fingers won’t help anyone. I couldn’t control myself either, it wasn’t just you. I’m fine, okay? See, look.” You plaster on a smile that’s meant to lighten the mood.
He mutters, “don’t say that shit. I know you’re trying to make me feel better but you’re not good. Don’t minimize this for my sake.” He sighs and empties his pockets onto the coffee table to get comfortable before sitting on the couch, “c’mere.”
You listen and climb onto his lap in a straddle, casually running your hands up and down his chest until you feel an unfamiliar, hard swell from between his collarbones. You reach underneath his shirt from his neckline and your fingers run over what feels like a thin chain. When you pull it out from beneath the fabric, a red heart-shaped locket rounded by a pattern of intricate golden swoops and curves appears at the center of the necklace. Once raw curiosity leads you to pop to open his new jewelry, looking right back at you is a sepia, sized-down picture of you to fit the locket.
Your shoulders sag as a seep of warmth spreads through your chest like water on dry concrete, a frown on your face from the heartfelt gesture.
He look down from your eyes to your pout, “fuck with it?”
You nod, “where’d you get this picture?”
“Stole it while you were knocked the other day.”
The laugh you emit while your finger traces the engraved accent on the lining of the locket is the first time he’s felt a semblance of peace since he’s got here. In all honesty, through all the noise: his father, his mother, Rafael, the family business, you’re the only semblance of peace he’s ever really had. The intensity of his gaze and the fact that he doesn't reply to you makes you flit your eyes up to his, and he’s quiet.
You murmur after a few seconds, “you love me.”
“What? Is she not a stripper at Bunny’s? What is she? A ‘dancer?’ Oh please.”
“I’m just saying. Have some respect for your grandfather. Jesus. Keep your burners off the property.”
“She’s not a— what? So you love her?”
He stares at you for a minute before nodding, “yea. I do.”
You do that little thing with your bottom lip in earnest again and take a deep breath before exhaling, “I love you too, Daddy.” In the blink if an eye, you’re leaning in and slotting your lips together in a measured kiss, his hands lifting to grip the back of your head and deepen it. You scoot so close that if you were any closer you’d be in his skin and a whine spills past your lips when it comes to a gradual end but he placates you with sprinkled pecks.
You don’t know it, but he traces the letters of your name onto your back when you scoot back and lie the side of your face on his shoulder. His voice a low rumble, “m’taking you to the South of France when this shit blows over.”
You smile, “yeah? When you’re the Don?”
He has faith the size of a rice grain that everything will still go according to plan. Everything has been upended in the past twenty-four hours, but one thing remains true. According to the twins, the entire Sonny fiasco began long before Carmen green lit Wesley’s shipment. That means, slim as it may be, there’s a very viable chance that the shipment could still arrive in one piece as they agreed on with no surprises. There are alternatives as well, like the chance that since she doesn’t trust them; she sends the kilos but with planted tracking devices, and that’s a far more digestible result because they could remove them manually before delivering it to Wesley. A three-point shot from half-court with fifteen seconds on the clock that ends the game in a victory by one point.
It isn’t over until it’s over.
“Mhmm. Have you oiled up, sunbathing ass-naked on the balcony of a château. I can see it now.”
You chuckle, imagining that exact scenario. “Gonna feed me bread and fresh fruits?”
“Whatever you want.”
“I like the sound of that.”
A comfortable silence falls between you before you’re piping up again.
“Roman.”
“Bibi.”
“You have any regrets?”
It’s a loaded question, one that he takes a minute to think about before responding. Although he has several small decisions he’s made that he would alter in hindsight, Roman is a firm believer in the butterfly effect. That any change, big or small, has the power to drastically alter the course of time. As fucked up as the cards he was dealt are, he would never gamble on an alternate universe that could shuffle those cards when this one gave him you, “no. One thing I could’ve done different could’ve changed everything. Who knows if I would’ve met you then.”
THE MIAMI-DADE PRIVATE AIRSTRIP.
Carmen looks down at her watch and blows out a tight breath.
8:38 P.M. He’s late.
The agreement was to meet up at this very airstrip to tie up any loose strings half an hour before the arrival of her 9 P.M. private plane. Over the past several weeks, after the nuclear bomb of a revelation Sonny dropped about the family’s plan to feed her to the feds at the shipment dock, she’s been quietly coordinating the logistics of her next moves with Sonny’s input as meticulously as possible while simultaneously ensuring she keeps up appearances around the family as to not raise any suspicion. Any uncertainty she had concerning Sonny and his validity when he first approached her was demolished without a shadow of a doubt when Roman proposed the idea of the port shipment exactly as Sonny said he would, and after he said he would.
One of the final pillars of their plan rolls into motion in half an hour, which starts with her boarding her plane the second the cargo ship she arranged hits the dock to evade the feds and jet to Columbia where she’ll lay low for an extended period of time before returning to Miami at a later time when it’s no longer hot and resume business but with Sonny this time around. As per their deal.
Carmen breathes out a sigh of relief and pushes herself off her Thunderbird when she sees two headlights piercing through the dark field finally approaching. She walks over to the drivers side of her car and reaches inside the open window to grab her car keys for him to supervise while she’s out of the country as she hears the slam of his door closing after he exits his vehicle.
When she backs up from the window, the ring of her key fob wrapped around her finger, Marisol is standing there with a gun pointed at her.
Carmen freezes, her heart beating a mile a minute. Her hand slowly inches towards the firearm tucked at her back once Marisol walks closer before a sharp pop precedes the warning shot that wizzes past her leg, just barely missing the limb. Her wandering hands fly to cover her ears in a flinch before she’s quickly raising them in the air in surrender.
“Waiting for Sonny?” In a taunt, Marisol turns her head to the side while keeping her eyes on Carmen and raises her voice, calling out for him like he’s somewhere near in proximity and turning to face her head-on when it’s clear that she’s here on her own.
These streets have eyes, mi amor. More than you think. You need me just as much as I need you. Be smart.
Carmen’s eyes shut when it hits her like a bucket of ice cold water.
It’s her.
His ‘eyes.’ The ‘sources’ he was was going on about to convince her that he was an asset, that was relaying information to him, that ultimately led her to believe she was being set up, was Marisol— the sister of the woman who’s murder she’s behind. It clicks like a lock and key. Marisol’s close proximity to The Bloodline as a dancer at Bunny’s gave her the means to ‘overhear’ information and she bets it just made it that much easier for her and Sonny to engage in conversation about their scheme under the guise of a private dance without arousing suspicion when she planted that motherfucker at the club to be on the lookout for her.
The airport bust. The shipment. Everything. From the start. Fuck.
Although she wasn’t convinced he was completely over what transpired between them in 1978, him stating that he was willing to put that behind them at the prospect of keeping her out of prison so he could profit off her coke was respectably transparent enough to be compelling. Add a layer of self-preserving paranoia and a legit insider? It was a done deal.
“Why the long face? He sent me to wish you a safe flight.”
Carmen snarls, “that son of a bitch. Voy a matarlo.” I’m gonna kill him.
Miles away, Sonny cruises through interstate 95, his signature Marlboro cigarette poking out his mouth as Phil Colin’s In The Air Tonight wafts through the radio and past his cracked windows. He nods his head and beats his finger against his steering wheel to the beat of the record, sparing intermittent glances from the road to the watch on his wrist. Although it wasn’t a part of the original plan, Marisol requesting to take the reigns of the dirty work was the best case scenario as someone other than him being directly responsible for the death of Carmen clears him of bloodshed that would otherwise trigger a colossal war between him and The Bloodline.
Nonetheless, it had to end like this for Carmen. His pockets yearn for the money he was making prior to this measly alliance that came in and swallowed the margins dealers like him earned whole. She wasn’t going to walk away from it on normal terms and this has to end before the end of tonight, before she finds out no one is out to get her and they never really were.
It has to be pried out of her cold, dead hands.
So, it will.
Marisol closes one eye and lines the barrel of the gun just beneath the other to improve her precision.
“Wait, wait, wait! Marisol, please. You have to understand. Your sister—Priscilla was with the family of a snitch! What else was I supposed to think?”
A pang of something navy blue hits Marisol right where her heart should be at the reminder of the lapse of judgement that took her sisters life, “Lucia grew up in the same neighborhood as we did. Her mother was a nurse who looked after Priscilla her entire childhood while she was sick. Knowing my sister, she was saying thank you and goodbye for looking after her before they left the country, never to return.”
Carmen’s frantic, wildly aware that she’s staring down the barrel of someone who no longer has anything to lose which historically is the most dangerous type. “Look. We can work something out, okay? We can. We can put all this behind us. I’ll look past it. I’ll give you whatever you want if you just… just let me board the plane.”
.
The shrill ringing of the olive green phone pierces through your quiet apartment and propels Roman off the sofa as you raise to sit on your knees. Roman unhooks it from it’s spot on the kitchen wall and presses it to his ear, instinctively wrapping his other hand around the coiling wire that connects it to it’s hook.
Jey cuts in, “it’s Marisol.”
“What?”
“Marisol is the reason why Carmen trusts Sonny. Vincent just checked the paperwork and Lucia’s family are safe and sound in witness protection. But get this, there was a shooting at the motel the feds were holding them in at Bogotá that killed two Medellín cartel members and a young woman named Priscilla Baez.”
His brows furrow, “Marisol Baez.”
“Yes, uce. Medellín? Those are Carmen’s boys. I can’t figure out why Priscilla was there, but I’m thinking Carmen’s boys were there for Lucia’s folks and she just happened to catch a stray. Wrong place wrong time. Lina said Sonny liked having ears on the ground. I saw him and Marisol leaving one of the private rooms together with her looking upset soon after the date the paperwork shows the shooting happened. I think she’s his ears on the ground and maybe vice versa.”
“They’re working together.”
“Sonny and Marisol, at least. Because why would two people who now both have personal grudges against Carmen be helping her? And what are they helping her with?”
“Whatever it is, it’s about us but it’s a set up.” His eyes roll closed when realization strikes, “and tonight’s her last before she dips.”
“Exactly. Vincent didn’t think that was a coincidence so he called his friends over at the local control tower to see if there’s any flights booked under Carmen’s “G. Blanco” pseudonym and there’s one under that name that departs from the Miami-Dade private airstrip in forty-five minutes. That’s a twenty minute drive from where you’re at right now. Whatever they’re planning, it’s going down tonight.”
The revelation that Carmen is currently being lured to her demise under false pretenses and has been for a while now ties his abdomen in a knot. The fallout would be disastrous. Not only would he immediately lose access to the premium grade powder that’s single-handedly responsible for the historic rise of The Bloodline as a syndicate and lead to the free-fall of the family from the number one spot on the Miami drug trade leaderboard along with their dominant profit margins, but it, as a result, would also disintegrate his chances of inheriting his father’s title into a million grains of sand between his fingers. His father, who’s keeping his eyes peeled for just one more speck of a misstep so he can snatch the trophy and tuck it in the arms of the golden child.
That can’t happen. He’s never been so close to glory and he knows he never will be again. It’s a fingertip away, “fuck. Alright.”
He deads the call by quickly tossing the phone back onto it’s hook on the wall with a clang and pats himself down for his keys and his gun before he leaves, remembering he left it on the coffee table, “shit, baby. I have to go. I have to go but I’ll explain everything when I get back.”
When he turns around, he’s facing the barrel of his own Beretta.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t let you do that.” A layer of tears gloss over your doe eyes.
His eyes stutter as they size you up. Clearly taken back, “...what are you doing?”
You slowly shake your head, equally earnest as you are apologetic. “I can’t let you leave. I can’t let you save her.”
“What are you talking about Bibi… put that down. Put it down.” He inches towards you with his hands raised, freezing in place once you disable the safety with a faint click.
His stomach plummets down into the core of the earth the second one of your hands raise to wipe your tears and the sweep of your thumb smears the makeup off your painted-on, bogus black eye. The black eye from the attack you concocted entirely on your own in a last-minute, desperate attempt to ensure he spent tonight with you because you couldn’t risk him figuring it all out in an environment that you couldn’t control.
Like that one time Jimmy made a light hearted joke at his expense during a poker game in the basement of that one deli they frequent once Roman arrived after a particularly aggravating face-off with his father. Upon hearing the chuckle of an unsuspecting waiter who was passing around their drinks, he passive-aggressively asked if the man thought ‘he was a joke’ and put a bullet between his eyes when the man didn’t answer in time.
A murder that he justified to his stunned cousins with a scratch of his beard and a flat utterance of ‘the underboss can’t be undermined’ before glaring between the lower-ranking associates on the other side of the small dimly-lit basement and the slumped body as a signal to clean up the dirty work.
The loss of your brother in that basement was senseless. No logic. No rhyme or reason. No explanation. The influence Roman and his family held in this city didn’t prohibit local law enforcement, which meant Anthony’s case went cold before his body did.
Marisol wasn’t apart of the original plan. Originally, it was just you and Sonny. You happened to overhear when Lina noticed Sonny at the club one night and mentioned he and Carmen’s rocky history to one of the other girls when it was just you three in the dressing room. Once Lucia’s airport bust fell out the sky like a god-ordained gift, you tempted Sonny in a lap dance on the main floor until he couldn’t help himself but request a private dance that you would riskily turn into a two-man business proposal. Leaving Marisol in the dark weighed heavy on your conscious only after what happened to Priscilla because you’ve been there before. You knew what it was like, and once you told her everything, she wanted in.
Roman places his interlocked fingers on the top of his head, both elbows jutting out as he barely begins shaking his head; refusing to believe it. You would never do him like this. He knows you. You know him. You bared your soul to him, and him to you. For the first time in his life, nonetheless.
He loves you.
He continues shaking his head, gently closing his eyes when you shakily ask, “if I told you his name, would you even remember it?” not as a reply, but because he’s actively shoving away anything and everything that doesn’t validate that this entire interaction is a sleep paralysis induced nightmare rather than reality. In fact, your question doesn’t even register until many seconds later when he finally looks up at you.
You sniffle, “Anthony was senselessly murdered in that deli off 71st boulevard out of nothing but callousness, Roman. But as I’ve gotten to know you, I’ve learned that your callousness stems from your negligent father and this… this race to the throne. And half of that is not your fault and you didn’t deserve that baby, but my brother died over the throne, and his death can’t be in vain. I won’t let it happen, I’m sorry.”
His voice strains, “this whole time…”
Your blurry vision makes the ruby heart-shaped locket hanging against his chest appear as an airbrushed red dot, like the organ pressed right below it is target practice. It was never supposed to get this complicated, but somewhere along the way you did lose grasp of what was real and what wasn’t. Deep down, he knows it and so do you. That level of intimacy is impossible to fake.
With your grip still on the gun, you peer down at your watch.
9PM.
You back up and lean over the armrest of your couch, your eyes still on him. Hidden near the wall on the floor lies a duffle bag filled with enough cash to sustain you for the foreseeable future, cash you’ve been saving up from your first day at Bunny’s. You toss it onto the sofa, grab his car keys off the coffee table, and tuck it into the pocket of your jeans so he can’t follow you. You toss the lanyard holding your car keys around your wrist, grab the duffle bag, and make your way to the door when he speaks, “Bibi.”
You turn to look at him for the last time.
His voice is a low, introspective rumble, “I’m sorry. I am, for it all. You asked if I have any regrets and I know why now, but my answer and the reason is still the same.”
No. One thing I could’ve done different could’ve changed everything. Who knows if I would’ve met you then.
When Marisol hops into the passenger seat of your red Chevrolet Monte Carlo once you peel into the airstrip, Carmen’s lying in a pool of her own blood by the rims of her convertible.
Jimmy, at the dock, watches as the crane hooks the large crate off the ship and onto the dock. With baited breath, an associate unlatches the doors of the cargo container to reveal a vessel full of nothing but fresh fruit. Not a brick of the promised cocaine in sight.
All while you rip through a deserted road out of Miami underneath a black sky, your speed forcing the wind to blow a handful of cash out the unzipped duffle bag from the backseat, float into the air and outside the roofless Monte Carlo, before floating onto the gravel road as Michael Jackson’s Dirty Diana strums through the radio.
not sure if you’re still taking requests for key west but id love to see a date night of roman and capri when things are good. or a family beach day idk i love seeing their dynamic. ohh another fun idea would be a possessive romantic moment before their breakup (you mentioned that a reason they broke up was because he’s very suffocating, jealous and possessive of her)
also plz not too much mia because its still very much fuck that hoe, cant wait till she gets killed off or hit by a car or something idk
𝐕𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘.
fresh off his return home from his longest stint away, roman’s not expecting you to welcome him back with open arms. but he’s also not expecting to have to track you down via your location when he’s met with a quiet house. he’s not expecting to find you at vice city. and he’s definitely not expecting to see you there with your ex when he pulls up. not with the loss you’ve both been grappling with— the one you’ve had no choice but to deal with on your own.
an | this is more so the possessive/romantic aspect of your ask anon. timeline wise, this is set some years before current day key west. after the miscarriage but before the conception of lorelei, when they’re still together.
KEY WEST VERSE. | WC: 5K.
The rumbling hum of his Hellcat with the red guts fills the expanse of the vehicle as Roman swerves through the road, his fingers tightly gripping the steering wheel and foot pressed on the gas.
He’d landed on the island a mere hour ago after what has turned out to be one of his longest stints away from home. Away from you. Three and a half weeks this time, almost a month.
After a certain point, it stops being just a hectic schedule and a series of conscious decisions. Deep down, he knows it. You do too despite his insistence otherwise during heated exchanges over text messages. He doesn't want to come home. He doesn’t want to face you. Face it.
The path of less resistance is easier. This is easier.
It’s easier to accept duties that he isn’t contractually obliged to and keep himself occupied in random cities than it is to face reality. At The Dungeon with Nattie during the day, on the house shows he’d persuaded Hunter to put him on for the night, and working out until muscle fatigue at the gym during the hours that bridge the two.
It’s his job to protect you. It was his job to protect her, and he fell impossibly short. As a man, there’s no tougher pill to swallow, but especially for him. So he doesn’t. He just stays away from anything that reminds him of it.
Until he can’t.
Until he feels the pull. Your pull. In the core of his torso, in his bloodstream, in his bones, in his heart. He always feels it, but with enough distractions, he can fight it and delude himself. He can pretend. But it grows undeniably stronger every day he’s away. And like a compass, no matter how lost in the woods you may be, the natural magnetic pull of our world always points back to north— back home.
However, when he makes it to the house, a shout of your name and the thud of his Nike duffle bag hitting the floor beside his suitcase does nothing but echo off the walls of his beachside estate.
He receives no reply.
He takes the stairs two at a time to check the bedroom, since there’s a chance you may have fallen asleep despite the fact that it’s a few hours earlier than when you typically hit the sheets, but you aren’t there. He checks different corners and crevices of the house: the kitchen, the other bedrooms, the bathrooms, the theatre room, the pool.
You aren’t home.
Immediately, he’s irritated.
He was already at his wits end with all this shit. Battered and bruised in more ways than just physically, he just wanted to decompress with you in his arms. Selfishly, he’d wanted to see you in that pretty yellow sundress you know is his favorite and jump into his arms before telling him how much you missed him, how much you need him. How much you still need him and that you’ll always need him. That he’s not a sorry excuse of a man and that you forgive him for the distracting argument you two were having on the phone seconds prior to your car accident that rainy night three months ago.
He needs to hear it. He needs to feel it.
His irritation worsens when he pulls his phone out to view your location and it reveals that your pin is currently dropped at Vice City, one of the most popular nightclubs in downtown Key West.
What the fuck are you doing at Vice City? Is the miscarriage not tearing you up from the inside out anymore like it is him? You don’t care? Is this just another small thing to a giant? Have you already put it behind you? Was it that insignificant to you?
He doesn’t call you. He doesn’t text you.
He just leaves the house and gets in the car, the skin of his palm pink from his grip on his phone.
The ride is absent of the music that typically blares past the stereo, the rough bass and 808’s of his favorite Future songs that usually result in him mindlessly going ten over the speed limit replaced with still silence until he’s parking his Hellcat in front of the building.
He slams the door shut behind him and walks toward the line of people wrapped around the block. The bouncer, Namina’s brother, grins when they make eye contact and diverts his attention from the group of people he’s speaking to behind the rope. “Aye! What’s up bro?” The question is more of a statement that he lowly shoots back, followed by a smooth dap-up and the unclipping of the rope to cut Roman in— much to the displeasure of the people next in line, whose complains he pays dust as he slides into the establishment.
He slips past and steps into the crowded club, scoping the scene engulfed in red lighting for a minute. But he’s bloodhound tailored to follow your ingrained scent to the end of the earth, so he could find you in the pitch dark if need be. And he does. After a few minutes of scoping the space, his eyes land on you by the bar, your back turned towards him as you seemingly speak to the bartender.
Beside you, a man. Too close for both you and Roman’s comfort, but the guy’s clueless. Trying to buy you a drink. Not getting the hint. All up in your space and shit. One of them. Except he isn’t just some man. It’s Aiden.
The unmistakable sensation of being watched urges you to look behind you, and when you toss a glance past your shoulders, you spot him. Or someone that looks eerily similar. For a second, you don’t move. You just look because he’s been away for so long, he looks something like a hologram; a technological projection. A hallucination rather than reality. But when he blinks and moves from near the entrance and takes a step towards you, you straighten up as a series of emotions course through you.
All of it hitting you all at once makes you a little emotional, warming your eyelids.
Instinctively, you tug down the rising fabric of your dresses hemline down from your under your ass as you travel down the small platform and through the sea of bodies to meet him, but his eyes don’t follow you. They’re firmly planted on your ex at the bar. It’s not until you’re inches away from him that his gaze flits to you.
You look up at him with a fold etched into the space between your brows, an inflection of pleasant surprise underscored in your voice despite how upset you are with him, “what are you doing here? You said next week.”
His eyes drink you in. The short dress fitting you like a hug, your hair and makeup, your nails. “What are you doing here Capri?”
You frown and silently hope he doesn’t have the audacity to take this somewhere he has no authority to given how distant he’s been both physically and emotionally, “I’m with Namina and the girls. They wanted to get me out the house.”
He points to Aiden with a minuscule tick of his head and you follow his line of sight, “that’s Namina and the girls?”
You huff out a breath of disbelief and cross your arms, “he popped up when I went to order. No more, no less. Don’t make it a thing, Roman. You’re in no position to question me right now.”
To say you’ve been understanding is an understatement. You know him well enough to know he’ll never say it. He’ll never admit that he’s been using every excuse under the sun to escape sitting with his grief. You know it’s the reason for every postponed return back to Key West.
His coping mechanism isn’t healthy, but when has anything with him ever been?
At the same time, him processing it the way he’s been is unfair to you. This is by no means something you should, nor do you want to, have to deal with on your own. But you haven’t been given a choice in that.
And for that, you’re upset.
So for him to question your coping mechanisms and the decisions of the people who have stuck around you while he was in whatever state doing whatever what? It’s absolutely ludicrous and you’re not having any of it.
Roman stares at you for a second before looking away like he does when he knows you’re right. His voice gets lower when he remembers how much your body language reflected that you were uncomfortable with Aiden’s proximity to you, “he bothering you?”
To keep the peace, you lie. “No.”
He extends a hand for you to take, and when you do after staring at it for a few seconds, he leads you to a dark, secluded corner of the lounging area of the club parallel to the bar. He takes a seat on the spacious velvet chair and manspreads before pulling you sideways onto his lap, moving your legs over the armchair.
The deep musk of his YSL cologne seeping past your senses when you rest your elbow on his shoulder disarms you. Like he used to do —whenever you and he weren’t on the best terms, unbeknownst to you— you found yourself spritzing his signature scent on your pillows on those sleepless nights while he was away just to help quell you like it was some sort of liquid melatonin. And it worked every time.
He runs his big, rough hand down the expanse of your smooth leg. The music doesn’t quite reach the far corner you two are in, so his low voice is discernible. “Missed me?”
“Did you miss me?”
He blinks. Okay. He deserved that, regardless of the sting. He murmurs, “you know I did. Type of question is that?”
As he caresses your legs, you watch as his hand runs over a freshly healed scar from the accident right above your knee. “Nona came over the other day.”
He gets a whiff of vanilla cashmere from your neck when you nestle deeper into his embrace, “yeah?”
You nod. “It was honey salmon and rice this time.”
He hums nonchalantly, “Mm. I told her you ain’t like the broccoli and cheddar soup.”
He may have struggled to show up for you the way he should’ve. Physically and, subsequently, emotionally. But Roman has a historical track record of showing you how much he cares in other ways; ways far more action-oriented. Practical. Ways more natural to him. Which is why regardless of the distance, he’s been making sure you were being hand-delivered warm home cooked meals on a biweekly basis because he knew you were too beside yourself with everything going on to get up and sustain yourself.
You gasp and sharply pull away, turning to look at him as your stomach drops. “Roman!”
The motion of his hand pauses at your calf when you sit up, his face flat. “What?”
His mother has been nothing short of a ray of light while he’s been away. She visited you regularly. Brought you flowers with ever case of tupperware. Encouraged you to run errands with her just to ensure you’re getting some sunlight. Even going so far as doing chores around the house you’re too embarrassed to admit you couldn’t pull yourself to do on certain days. You’d hate to offend someone who’s done so much for you, “what do you mean you told her that? I never said that! I… liked it.”
He rolls his eyes. You’re too fucking polite for your own good. “There was more than half of that shit left in the container when she was sending the pictures, Pri. You didn’t like it.”
Ever since you were a child, you’ve despised broccoli and cheddar soup. Oddly, when you were pregnant, it was your number one craving. You didn’t want anything but it. So, it was a sobering moment when you stood barefoot in the fridge light and mindlessly brought that first spoonful to your mouth without a second thought. An emotional reminder that you hate it again, because you’re not pregnant anymore.
You sigh and melt back into his chest, his hand skimming across soft skin again. “That’s rude, Roman.”
“You’d starve otherwise, so I don’t wanna hear it. She’ll live.”
You stare at your heels atop the armchair. That’s an exaggeration. You wouldn’t starve, but it isn’t lost on you that he confirmed he’s been keeping tabs on you and your eating habits. As kind as his mother may naturally be, you’d be lying if you claimed you didn’t have a sneaking suspicion that he may have put her up to some of what she was doing. “I would not. I’m… cooking again.”
It’s a sentiment of a milestone; one that marks that clouds are parting to make way for the sun again. Parting enough for you to pick yourself up to complete what is considered a basic necessity. Though, it’s bittersweet because that signals this is nearly behind you now. An indication that she’s nearly something to put behind you now, when there was a day not too long ago when she was your future.
Even from your side profile, he can see you crawling into the depths your head— so he pulls you out with a small dose of what you need, “to my misfortune.”
You roll your eyes with a loose grin and only start really laughing when you realize he’s not even smiling, which is how ninety-nine percent of the laughs he gets out of you work. Your laugh ceases, “you like my food.”
“Shit. I’m legally obligated to.” You smack your teeth and go to swat at his shoulder but the hand running up and down your leg jumps and intercepts it before it can land with a lazy smirk.
He sinks deeper in the cushioned seat to get even more comfortable, the nape of his neck resting lazily against the tip top of the chair. When he does, you two meet at eye-level. “Nah. I like your food.”
You smile into his chest, tugging down on your rising hemline before taking your small purse off your shoulder to pull your phone out. In the time that it takes you to do so and text the group chat your whereabouts so they don’t get worried, his hands start wandering. You two are tucked away in the darkest, most secluded lounging section of Vice, but it’s still an open area and people could see past the dark red ambiance if they set their mind to it.
He couldn’t be paid to care less.
He’s feeling you up. It could’ve passed off as innocent at first, the smooth cruise from your calves to your upper thighs when you cocooned onto his chest and turned your attention to type away at your phone, but then each pass becomes more and more pronounced. He shamelessly gropes the fat of your ass, runs down your thighs, and then repeats the process until you’re a little breathless.
“Roman…” Your meek voice is as small as a mouse, as if to warn him that you’re not in private and you’re surrounded by people. Except he seems to grasp that notion perfectly, because when you lock your phone with a click and crane your head away from the screen to his face, his hooded eyes are elsewhere.
Across the room at the bar, your high school sweetheart’s good judgement keeps him bound to the stool. Still, he can’t help his shifty eyes above the drink he’s been nursing since your sudden departure. He tried to play it as cool as possible when he saw you tonight for the first time in a long time, but you’ve always had this innate ability of making him sweat. So it’s no surprise you slipped through his fingers. Again.
When you realize who Roman’s peering at and what exactly he’s doing through the red haze of Vice, you want to stop him in his tracks. It’s cruel and mean-spirited to subject Aiden to the sight. Yet, you don’t. You don’t because as vile as it may be, he’s sparking you up like a live wire. You’ve felt so alone through this all, even going so far as to using his cologne to psychologically pacify yourself, that the intimacy feels like the antidote. You’ve been craving this. You need this.
He takes his bottom lip in between his teeth, grabbing one of your ankles and pulling it down a couple inches from the armchair and onto the cushion to create a small degree of separation between your legs.
Your phone buzzes in your hand as his sneaks up your warm inner thighs. His teasing caresses, your sensitivity, and the anticipation draws heat to your core. The Weeknd’s Party Monster pulses through the building as he noses at the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your ear.
His fingertips barely grazes the outline of your lips through your thong but it sends goosebumps prickling up your arms, “missed me here?”
You nod as your eyes flutter shut, your mouth parting when he wraps your hair around his free fist and tugs on it at the same time he uses the pad of his thumb to press on your pulsing clit. “You’re gonna let him see you like this? Hmm? At my mercy like this? You know what he’s thinking right now?”
You let your phone drop onto the sofa seat and wrap your arms around the hunky arm leading under your dress as he gently rubs you in soft, small circles. “That you’re a slut. That you’re not that same girl he remembers.”
His fingertips lights delicious little sparks in your core, his antagonistic voice purring in your ear. “And he’d be right. He doesn’t have a clue as to all the tricks I’ve taught you. He’d be sick to his fucking stomach.”
The thought doesn't help the stiffening erection in the confinement of his pants, but your light squirming in his lap does relieve him of the tight pressure in his groin. His possessiveness over your naked form binds the fantasy strictly to just that— fantasy. The image runs rampant in his minds eye as the yummy pressure of his fingers against your swollen pearl draws your whines into his ear; sitting your weak ass ex into a chair in a corner and making him watch as Roman nails you to the mattress like you like. Making you tell Aiden how good he’s making you feel while you’re creaming on his big dick. Making you tell him how big his dick is. Busting all inside you while you’re face down, ass up while you struggle to maintain strict eye contact with Aiden because you’re coming too.
Breaking his spirit.
Because maybe then, he’ll finally get it. Maybe then, he’ll understand who exactly you belong to. There will be no if’s, and’s, or but’s. The picture couldn’t be any clearer.
He huffs out a smug breath of humor past his nose when he already feels your pussy drooling past the fabric of your thong. He know just how to touch you, but also, he knows just what to say. How to talk to you when he’s touching you. You should be ashamed by the things he says, but it just activates you.
If a bystander doesn’t hyper-fixate on you two, it just looks like you’re really comfortable on his lap since the dim lighting makes it difficult to make anything out of his explorative hand.
He pulls on your hair to crane your head on his chest back and locks your lips in a slow, heated, sensual kiss as his wet fingers sneaks past the barrier of your thong. He blindly traces the thick lips of your warm cunt and uses three fingers to rub your clit with pressure so delicious that it makes you part from the kiss, “oh.”
Your mouths centimeters apart, he stares intently into your eyes as he slowly sinks his thick middle and ring fingers inside you. With every lazy pump, he murmurs devilish little sentiments against your lips.
… Missed this tight little pussy.
… Never stop thinking about you. Even if I wanted to, shit.
… Come on Daddy’s fingers. Nobody’s gonna see. Just us.
… Shhh. Gonna blow our spot up.
He unwraps his fist from your hair and covers it over your mouth when your body stiffens and tightens your thighs over his other hand, but he maneuvers it. As luck would have it, the orgasm is both powerful and subtle. You come so hard your ears start ringing, your breathless moans muffled into his palm.
He only finds the willpower to peel his eyes away from you when your heaving chest desperately searches for a lungful of air. His eyes dart over to the bar again, but Aiden seemingly nodded off some time ago because the stool he was sat on is empty. Surely when his eyes registered what they was seeing.
Hm.
A small sense of victory overcomes the sliver of insecurity that’s been looming in the distance as he looks down at your pretty, blissed-out face. Insecurity stemming from the fear that he’s not only a sorry excuse of a man for not being able to prevent the loss of the baby, but also the fact that he had an active hand in causing it. Insecurity when he spotted you at the bar in fear that in his absence, you’ve started searching elsewhere for the comfort he hadn’t been able to provide you. That he’s ruined you for anyone new so you’ve started looking for comfort in the people of your past.
Perhaps it’s why he’d wanted to see what you’d say to him having you like this, why he wanted to see if you’d care too much about Aiden’s feelings to let him touch you like this.
But you didn’t. You let him have you.
You still need him.
“Let’s go.”
You’re breathless. “Huh?”
“Up. Let’s go.”
He rushes you to your feet and snags your phone off the cushion as you messily roll your small purse up and hook it onto your shoulder. His hand tightly engulfs yours as he leads you out the discreet section and through the crowd.
TEMPERATURE RISING, BODIES UNITING
NOW THAT I’VE TRAPPED YOU IN MY ARMS
NO NEED TO FIGHT IT, NO NEED TO HIDE IT
NOW THAT I’VE SEEN WHAT’S IN YOUR HEART
Namina, who’s been serenely kicking it with the group of people she came with ever since the text you sent letting her know Roman’s here and that you’re with him, pops the straw of her drink out her lips in surprise and reaches her hand out for you the moment your and her eyes lock as you pass by her on the floor— but he’s a man on a mission so he doesn’t stop, and you’re gone in a flash.
The fresh breeze of air that hits you the second you step outside is crisp.
“Wait. Wait. Slow down.” Thank god you opted for kitten heels in lieu of something more dramatic. You have to do a little jog just to keep up with his massive strides, but you find his anticipation a little amusing.
Roman does not. In fact, he’s one second away from saying fuck it, ducking off into one of the alley ways on the street, and pinning you to the brick walls but he knows you’d never have that.
When you two finally reach his car, he spins you so your back is pressed flush against the back door and he’s on you in the blink of an eye. His hand on the sides of your throat, your lips latch like a lock and key. The kiss is erotic in nature despite how frenzied it is, and the light oxygen deprivation at your head when his fingers lightly squeezes mixed with the arousal from the kiss spreads heat through your body.
He steps back and pulls you with him before unlocking and opening the back door of his Hellcat.
You take your purse off and toss it onto the floor of the car, climb into the backseat on all fours, and take your heels off. He steps off the street curb to follow behind you but you lie on your back and press your the toes of your foot right at his lower sternum before he can enter.
There’s a mischievous glint in your eye, “uh-uh.”
He pauses and looks at the white toes of your pretty arched feet, two miles of legs leading to a secret goldmine. The eighth wonder of the world. Confusion’s etched on that handsome face of his, “what?”
“Stay right there.”
When you peel your dress up at the waist just enough for you to hook your thumbs under your thong and roll it down your thick thighs, he immediately steps closer to block the view of you and looks around the sidewalk. Nobody’s around. Thankfully, he parked a block away from Vice because parking spots near the building were taken when he pulled up.
You drop that onto the car floor too, and then turn on all fours before getting as far as possible to the edge of your seat and perking your ass out. “I want it like this.”
You want him to stay outside and fuck you with the door open.
“You’ve lost your damn mind Capri.”
You plant your face on the seat and reach underneath your body to part your thick, wet lips with your fingers and give him a show. Still sodden from your earlier orgasm, “please Daddy? We’ll be fast. Plus we’re so far. Nobody’s gonna see.”
He doesn’t know what the fuck he’d do if somebody happened to see you like this, but perhaps this is the monster he made. You never used to be so adventurous. You were as vanilla as they come, on par the course with your ex boyfriend, but you’d been corrupted. Irreversibly. Shit, he can’t believe there was a time when getting you to even talk back to him during sex was an achievement.
Your eyes hone in on his unmistakeable bulge. “You're so hard. I know it hurts. You know I know to fix it. Let me fix it. Seven minutes max. A quickie.”
His jaw tight, he sighs before shaking his head and unbuckling his pants. He unzips his zipper, pulls his thick cock out from his boxers, and strokes his rock hard erection with a hiss. “Scoot back.”
A rush of adrenaline bolting through you, you follow his instruction and scoot back even closer to the edge of the seat. Your knees sunk onto the red leather of the interior, only your legs and feet protrude out of the car. He steps in between them and runs his dick up and down your drenched slit to lubricate himself. One hand balling his shirt into his palm and his other hand at your ass, he lines himself at your hole and uses his grip at your ass to slowly push you back into swallowing him.
“Ohhh.” You roll your bottom lip into your mouth and revel in the sweet sensation of him inside your snug walls. You coat him in your arousal immediately, his entire length wet with every drag.
He watches intently as his big dick splits you in half, but you just take it like the slut you are. The one he corrupted you into being. Uniquely for him. “That’s my girl. Feel so perfect for Daddy. Shit.”
You mewl and whine into the seats, helplessly creaming all over him as he bullies into your wet pussy. “Oh my godddd. I missed you.”
“You missed me?”
“I missed you.”
“I missed you too baby. F-fuck. Never leaving again.”
You cry out when he thrusts as far as he can go before pulling out to the tip and repeating the process, your wet pussy squelching with every shove. Your eyes roll to the back of your head when his wet thumb raises to caress at your puckered hole as he stuffs you full, “feels so fucking… good. Oh.”
He loves when you get like this. When you get so dickdrunk you can’t make anything out of anything. Making sense is just a suggestion. He’s the only person who can do it to you. Who will do it to you. It’s his responsibility to make your body feel this good.
Red lips parted on red leather, you start throwing your hips back to meet his thrusts when you feel his fat cock throbbing inside your tight walls. Your hand travels under your body to rub firm circles onto your clit when you hear him grunt.
He grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls as he drills into your squelching cunt, “wanted to get fucked where anybody could see. Hmm? Want people to see how good I make that pussy feel don’t you baby? Wanna get caught getting slutted out.”
He’s pounding. “Fffffggg.”
His voice is devilishly low, “shit. You feel so fucking good. Let me nut in it baby. It’s all yours. I’m all yours. Everything’s yours.”
He does you in for nearly ten minutes, but your orgasm still catches you out of nowhere, and it takes you out of your body. It starts at the innermost part of your core and works itself outward until it touches your toes like a shock wave. You can’t talk. You can’t even cry. You’re just victim to the sensation possessing you.
His grip on your hair forces your rolling eyes to face the stars on the ceiling of his Hellcat as he grunts like he’s in pain. The siphoning muscles of your slippery pussy sucks on his big dick until he falls off the ledge. He thrusts as deep as he can go before stilling and shooting rope after rope after rope inside you, groaning huskily as his empties his balls.
Your sharp inhale signals the waning of the waves, his hands running up and down your quivering thighs to quell you as he catches his breath.
After buckling his pants back up, he slowly slides out of you and picks your thong up off the floor mat. He slides it back onto your legs and slips into the car right beside you, “come here.”
You gather yourself enough to climb on top of him and straddle him, your face resting in the crook of his neck. He’d think you fell asleep if not for the faint flutter of your lashes against his skin every now and then. You stay like that for a while, his hand running up and down the expanse of your back.
“Roman.”
“Hm.”
A pause. “I can’t do that again. I wouldn’t survive it. I don’t want you to… I need you to stay.”
He doesn’t reply, he just caresses your back in silence.
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: After a show, Roman doesn't wait a second to take what he needs
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: SMUT 18+, locker room fun, semi public sex, daddy kink, dirty talk, slut shaming (blink and you will miss it lol), unprotected sex, creampie, oral (man giving), rough and deep sex
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 3.9k
𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: I had this one sitting in my wips for almost a year now and thought I'd finish it for the birthday man! I changed a couple of things, this isn't exactly where it was supposed to go but it's what I came up with. It wasn't a birthday fic but I made it to be. Kinda. I hope you enjoy, I know it's been a little while since I shared something. Love y'all 💋
A/N 2: I had to reedit and change the picture/gifs set up because Tumblr flagged the post and hid it for everyone... 🙃 but now it looks fine! 🤞
Oh and Happy Birthday Roman or whatever 🙄 I love you even though you have big ears, teeth for days, you're a sexy DILF and you're somewhat of a good wrestler (kidding, you're the best) ❤
Credits: Roman pictures and gifs from Tumblr, text picture from Pinterest, lace divider from @anitalenia, MDNI divider by me, blue gradient divider by @omi-resources
Masterlist | Taglist
The locker room was silent, apart from the TV mounted on the wall, that only minutes ago broadcasted Raw, but now was broadcasting a random show I didn’t care about enough to remember the name.
I could hear the wrestlers and various crew members moving around in the backstage of the arena, sometimes catching a little bit of conversation here and there. People coming and going in the hallway, making me stare at the door as if it would suddenly open and welcome the man I am waiting for.
The man of the hour, the World Heavyweight Champion—Roman Reigns.
Once again tonight, he was advertised on the show.
The attraction of the night because let's be honest, everybody talks about him, whether they like him or not. The Tribal Chief is the star, the main event, the head of the table.
The ring is and forever will be his home.
Nowhere else is he more comfortable than in a ring, under thousands of people's eyes—and millions watching from the comfort of their home.
The day he finally leaves that ring, a long period of grieving will follow.
Nothing will ever be the same.
There was a before Roman Reigns and there will be an after.
The latter being harder to replace, to forget.
Roman Reigns will never be forgotten, nor will he ever be replaceable.
Because Roman is not just a pleasure to the eyes, leaving anyone jealous of his physique and his handsome features, but he is an incredible athlete with undeniable charisma.
A 6'3 man and 200 something pounds of muscles and hard work. 41 years young and still killing it in a ring, as if he was still 20 or 30 years old. Superman punches and spears done to perfection, putting each of his opponents at the back of the line, after the 3 counts.
1. 2. 3.
The ring bells and the champion is crowned.
Still the Heavyweight Champion, he can hold his title proudly in the air until the next man decides to challenge him.
A fighter in and outside of the ring. Every single time.
Defeating other wrestlers and defeating cancer, his lifelong battle—one he will never truly be done with, always having to keep beating its ass.
No questions asked.
He can turn the whole arena into a cult, thousands of people lifting their ones to the sky, acknowledging and serenading him with OTC chants and calling him the Tribal Chief and the Head of the Table.
It's so easy for him to grab a microphone and cut a promo, making everyone sit down and listen to him, drinking in each and every single words that he speaks.
His presence is felt, not just seen.
When he enters a room, everyone stares.
When he's there, everyone knows without even having to look.
The air shifts, the energy changes.
That's the effect he has.
The night is over, but you can still feel the chills on your body, his entrance music never forgotten in your brain and you never seem to be able to keep your finger down when anyone mentions him because this is more than wrestling.
This isn't just a promo, it's a show of respect. It's legacy. Family. Bloodline.
It's so many things at once.
What a privilege to be in the front seat of it all, to be the woman he always comes back to and have the chance to be called his.
Although, I have to admit, it is hard for me to stay focused on what he does or says out there.
He's too much of a distraction himself.
Growls and grunts while in the ring resemble the same ones he makes when he's doing another stipulation of a wrestling match.
Only exception, this type of match doesn't take place in a wrestling ring.
Anywhere else but there.
Similar actions but different scenarios.
Different finishes.
Him on top, while I'm under him, sometimes switching to spice things up.
He has the upper hand, sometimes I do, the same way it works in that ring.
No belts to win. No opponents to beat. Not even a bell ringing signaling the end of the match.
None of that.
The goal is simple.
Conquer each and every curve and crevice of my body.
Two winners but no loser. Everyone wins in this game for two.
Claiming my body with what God blessed him with, marking me as his as we both unravel together. Him feeding me through ropes and ropes of his love while I take all he has to offer me.
Watching him wrestle or even just stand and look handsome in the center of the ring as he delivers greatness, baritone voice echoing through the microphone, never fails to leave me wanting more.
Craving the same kind of energy.
The same force.
Raspy and husky voice whispering dirty and nasty words in my ear. Praising my submissive self, letting him use my body as he pleases. Hands and dick claiming my body like no one has ever done before.
Dominating me.
Taking what’s his while giving me what I need. Wanting him to manhandle me, maneuver my body in any way and all the positions imaginable. Body at his full disposition, ready to please and obey all his commands.
I want to be his good girl.
Heavy footsteps stopped in front of the door, before I even had the time to think, it opened, revealing a tall and imposing 6’3 man in all of his glory, his title in hand.
“Hey, bab-” I barely had time to greet him accordingly, the energy shifting. Roman’s eyes locked on me instantly, wandering up and down my body and making me feel like a piece of meat. I felt shivers run down my body, my pussy starting to show appreciation and need for the man in front of me, now licking his lips and reaching behind him, making sure the door was locked.
Intruders and unexpected guests weren’t welcomed to our little private after party.
“Perfect. Exactly the person I need right now,” he smirked, beckoning me over with his pointer finger, carefully putting his title down. “Come here lucky girl…”
The look he gave me just now, I recognized a little too well. Seen it plenty of times before.
Eyes undressing me. Permanent smirk staying on his plump and delicious lips.
I knew exactly what he wanted.
What he needed.
Those eyes hid absolutely nothing about his real intentions, brown orbs now looked nothing like it.
Now dark and filled with something else.
Lust? Need? Love?
Probably a mix of the three.
That dangerous tongue of his, teasing and demonstrating what plans it had for me later against his own lips.
Long fingers making my body miss the way he touches me. Pleasing me with only a brush of them. Long digits entering my holes, playing tricks only they knew how to master.
The lack of privacy and intimacy this room provided and the fact we were now done here for the night, asked for me to try and bring some common sense back into the situation.
“Roman! You really can’t wait until we’re back home?” Seeing as I didn’t move from my spot—sitting on the leather couch in the middle of the room—he slowly strutted his way to me, making my pulse quicken and panties moisten.
We had a comfortable bed waiting for us at home and I wanted nothing more than to have him all to myself but not here.
To be fair, I knew we wouldn’t make it home anyway. The ride home required us to take his private jet. And knowing how impatient and uncaring he is about fucking me anywhere he wants to, it was certain we would reach our highs while being high up in the sky.
Still, I preferred fucking in a jet then here, providing us more privacy and intimacy.
I had other plans but I guess he also had plans of his own.
It was a special day for him.
His birthday.
I didn't want to celebrate it in a locker room.
“Do I look like someone who can wait?!” Voice husky and deep with need and lust, my body instinctively responded, preparing to receive whatever he felt like offering me tonight.
Pointing down to the evident bulge in his pants, indeed it looked like he couldn’t wait any longer.
Roman—like the impatient man he is—had to take matters into his own hands.
In one quick motion, expertly grabbing the back of my thighs, he picked me up, hands gripping the meat of my thighs, securely keeping me in place.
I yelped, eyes wide, not expecting him to do that. Instinctively, my thighs wrapped around his waist, the grip on his fingers almost bruising on my skin from how tightly he held onto me.
Low moans left my parted lips but that’s all that came out.
The rest was stuck.
Words caught in my throat, blocked and unable to come out. A switch he didn’t yet turn on.
Soon, though, I’ll be trying to lock it back again.
If he even allows me. I doubt it.
Turning around, he nearly pushed me into the wall, right next to the door he erupted in seconds ago. The wall was cold and rough against my skin. Air almost suffocating, tension high, a lethal combination making it pretty much impossible to get out of this situation with clothes on.
The warmth of his body, the feeling of his rough hands on my legs from under my dress, the feeling of his skin, of his muscles as I grabbed his biceps, it was all too much.
Lips and teeth attacking my neck with open mouthed kisses and nibbles, like he wanted a taste of me. His cologne and faint smell of sweat from his earlier action in the ring, were the last things my body needed for all my senses to be filled with him everywhere.
Like a drug, it gave me a rush, a need.
I craved more, drunk off of him.
More kisses. More touches.
Now, all of him had invaded each and every one of my senses, unable to focus on anything else but him.
That’s the usual effect this man has on me.
I’m used to it by now. Losing all sense of control and common sense when he claims my body with the slightest of actions.
Wearing a dress tonight was definitely a good idea, Roman easily making his way in between my legs. His throbbing cock knew exactly where to go, finding the treasured land easily as soon as it was released from the constrict of his pants and underwear.
The surprise when he pushed my panties to the side and pushed—shoved—his dick all the way inside my pussy.
I gasped loudly at the welcomed but unexpected intrusion. Eyes squeezed shut at the stretch, nails digging into his arms, clawing and marking the skin.
This comes with no surprise with the amount of time he and I have fucked—this man has one hell of a dick and he knows how to use it.
Except, his cock isn’t only long but also very thick.
Adjustment needed for me when he feels like coming inside to play.
But not like he cared about that little detail right now.
One way or another, he will find his way in.
He always does.
Tight pussy pulled him in, locking him in place but still, it didn’t stop him from pushing and trying to thrust his way fully inside, making himself at home.
My breath caught in my throat, already feeling full and I could tell—and feel—he wasn't even half way inside.
Stern eyes and commanding voice, Roman wasn’t worried about me.
He knew his pussy and memorized the way it felt and how it fitted his size perfectly.
“You know it fits, just take it,” he growled, hissing at the way my tight cunt fluttered around him. He tried pushing himself inside again, groaning desperately. “Come on, lemme in…”
Perfect dick making me feel like I was about to be split open. Legs widening, pussy squeezing and spasming, wanting to welcome him inside but barely hanging on with that much hardness to deal with.
And God knows, that was almost impossible to achieve.
Roman usually makes sure I'm ready, fully prepared to take him by using some foreplay.
Not tonight.
Not when he's that horny and he can't control himself.
Moaning loudly, I whined, looking up at him with hooded eyes, holding onto him for dear life. “...So big-mhmm-full—”
Still wondered how the hell he managed to fit all of him inside of me. He’s some kind of magician for sure because there is no way.
I could feel his burning gaze on me, eyes locked on the way my face contorted in both pleasure and discomfort, my cunt still trying to make him fit inside my tight opening.
Thank God I never had any problems getting wet with him, helping him move in and out, lubricating and facilitating the passage of his huge cock in my tight pussy.
Roman let out a groan again, getting frustrated at my greedy pussy that wanted him inside but wasn't quick enough to get used to his impressive size.
Patience was never his biggest quality.
When he wants something, he wants it now, not later.
“What did I just say?! You know it fits!” I cried out as he fed me one deep thrust, nearly feeling him in my stomach. “Stop whining and fucking… take… it.” Three deep and strong thrusts made me see a glint of the stars and successfully managed to turn me on even more, wet pussy seconds away from turning into a Slip N’ Slide.
It's a good thing Roman loves those.
“Ro-Roman…” I managed to let slip from my mouth, voice strained. Whimpers followed soon after as his tip started teasing my hidden and spongy spot deep inside of me.
With the pleasured sound he just let out and the way I felt even fuller, I think he had managed to force his way inside, losing control of my pussy.
The sounds coming out from down there were nasty and nearly pornographic.
Sounds of skin slapping on skin, his balls ricocheting against my ass each time he pushed back. My pussy joined in on the concert too, mixing in some of its very own sounds—squelching sounds.
The whole mix created the perfect mixtape for a good time.
Whoever was to walk by at this instant, would know exactly what kind of game was being played on the other side.
Not only was it hot in here, but the room, filled with moans, grunts and whimpers, only added to the arousal of us both.
“That’s it…” he growled, feeling my cunt clenching and squeezing his meat, trying to accommodate his size. “Perfect pussy, remembering me each time like I never left…” he leaned down and bit my earlobe. “And if I could… I’d stay buried in it all day long…”
Deep thrusts and rolls of his hips followed his words. My ears almost went deaf, overwhelmed with the intensity of it all.
Unable to focus on anything else but the way he was taking possession of my pussy and my whole body, with each snap of his hips on mine
“See this shit?” He looked down at where we were connected, one hand reaching behind my neck to make me look too. “Perfect. Just fucking perfect," he closed his eyes and bit on his bottom lip before looking down again, “Like always, this pussy welcomes me in like second skin.”
The sight alone almost made me gush out on his big cock instantly. His long length drove in and out of me, eaten up by my tight and wet pussy. Glistening in my juices, he was moving fast and with purpose, hitting all the spots with perfect precision.
Eyes moving up on me, on the way I was falling apart in his arms, he chuckled.
“You love this shit don’t you? Daddy’s dick splitting you open and turning you into a slut for me... I know you love this, sweetheart,” he chuckled some more when I answered him with a loud whiny moan and breathless cry of his name. “Shit-you’re squeezing the hell out of me right now…” He hissed, leaning to stay inches away from my face, our lips teasing a kiss.
Words were unnecessary.
My pussy was doing all the talking anyway.
Growling again, Roman smacked my ass, making me whine and almost lose it right here and there. “Babygirl’s getting close, huh?” He mewled in my ear, “Wanna cum? Make a mess on daddy?”
Feeling me clench and dripping down on him, he went even deeper, helping me bounce back on him, meeting him in between his thrusts. His baritone and raspy voice drove me insane and made my eyes roll to the back of my head. “Cum for daddy.”
It was all I needed.
My body started shaking, eyes squeezed shut as he made me cum hard. I felt like I was screaming but nothing came out. Mouth hung open, eyes closed.
My pussy was so tight and gripping him so hard, I felt him twitch.
“Lemme get a taste of this juicy pussy…” Opening my eyes as I felt the material of the leather couch under me, they quickly rolled to the back of my head.
Feasting on me like he hadn’t eaten a full meal in days, Roman's mouth was everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
Licking and exploring my pussy, he had just fucked so, so good seconds ago.
My clit, my lips, even my asshole.
Nothing was left untouched.
I felt empty. No longer feeling the hardness of his sex inside of me. It was a weird feeling considering how only minutes ago, this very same pussy was struggling to even make him fit.
Now, it didn't want him to leave. She wants him back.
Although, I'm not one to complain about some cuni.
Neither did this pussy.
It's disgusting to hear and feel how drenched my pussy is, knowing Roman didn't give a damn about it, not letting his mouth and tongue miss a single spot.
I could picture the whole scene and how it would look like it was taken from a porn scene.
My whole sex life felt like a porn scene at times with Roman. The amount of filth and freak it combined was almost embarrassing.
I can't get enough of him and he can't get enough of me.
We ruined each other for anybody else.
The softness of his lips around my clit contrasted perfectly with the roughness of his beard scraping my inner thighs. As instinct, my legs locked around his head and my hands reached for his hair, uncaringly tugging and pulling at the strands, making his manbun look a mess.
None of us cared about it for now.
He groaned into my cunt at the feeling and quickly pulled his face away, still a glistening mess covered in my juices. He didn't care, acting like it was nothing and swapped my hands away from him to bury himself in between my legs again.
Legs spread wide by his hands, he went back into driving himself inside of me, drilling my pussy in fast and deep strokes, penetrating not only my cunt but my whole soul.
Now he was going to chase his nut, clearly on the verge of erupting inside of me after all that.
“ROMAN!” I cried out in pleasure, shutting my mouth quickly in embarrassment, my hand barely containing my voice echoing inside the locker room.
I was sure everyone in the arena heard me.
Of course, Roman didn't give two fucks about it.
For all I know, it only encouraged him.
“I know… feels good, huh?” Removing my hand from my mouth he shook his head with that damn dangerous and wicked smirk of his. “Nuh huh. Don’t hold back, babygirl. Wanna hear you… Whose dick is it?"
I was a fucking mess.
My head was spinning, on cloud nine. Breathless, I struggled to find the strength to use my voice cords but I managed to answer him. "M-mine. It's mine. M-my dick."
“Damn right babygirl, it’s all yours… and you know how to make it yours," he licked his lips and moaned at the taste of myself on his lips, igniting his own arousal even more.
“Daddy…” I whined loudly, feeling that familiar feeling building up inside of me again.
He grabbed my body and nearly made me dizzy from how fast he maneuvered me and forced me on my knees. Pushing me against the arm of the couch, I didn’t have time to breath, that he was back taking my breath away.
“Oh-FUCK! D—DADDY!”
“You’re doing so good babygirl… Taking daddy so well… I’m gon’ give you your prize, pretty girl… You gon’ lemme cum in this pussy, huh? My pussy?”
All I could do was nod.
Throat dry from all the screams and moans that came out of me and an overexposure to good dick—to him.
“Use your words, baby… You know daddy don’t like feeling ignored, I need to hear you…”
“Mhmm-yes,” I muttered under my breath. I felt the grip of his hand on my hair tighten.
"Yes what?"
"C-cum. I w‐want your cum," turning my head to look at him, it was now my job to get what I wanted. "Give me my cum. Give me all of it, daddy. Don't leave me empty. I want it s-so bad."
My pleas and desperation every time he's about to cum, always drives him crazy.
He loves this shit.
Loves knowing how badly I want to feel his warm seed inside of me.
I turn feral at this point each time.
Starving, I need him to feed me with his white and sticky cum, an evidence of how much he loves me and I gave him pleasure.
Make a mess everywhere, I don't care, as long as I get filled by him.
A stuffed babygirl, is a happy babygirl.
Roman nearly collapsed on top of me, followed by a deep grunt and one last snap of his hips against mine. Buried to the hilt inside of me, his whole body shook and I shivered as soon as I felt the first spurt of cum. "Yes, yes, YES. Give it to me-fuck."
Breathless and bodies sticky with sweat, we stayed connected together for long minutes trying to catch our breaths and recover from our respective orgasms.
"You okay?" Roman asked, pecking my shoulder. He always hated how carried away he can get at times, too horny and in need of feeling my pussy around him that he doesn't take the time to do foreplay and ask me if I'm ready to take him.
"Y-yes."
"Promise? That was a lot," his hands went straight to work, caressing and rubbing my body.
I smiled and lifted my head to look at him. "That was fucking amazing," he leaned down to kiss me and I pulled away after. "Happy birthday, champ."
Roman instantly relaxed, a smile forming on his handsome face. "Thank you, baby."
Warnings | 18+ only | MDNI| fluff, angst, morally grey characters
Word Count | 1.3k
Summary | dreams and reality often blend together.
Masterlist
My dream maker, my heart breaker
Wherever you're going, i'm going that same way
Given the circumstances I should probably be more vigilant when answering the door, but at this hour it could only be one thing— so I thought. My eyes are cast low expecting to find my takeout planted neatly on my plush doormat, only to be met with the leather of familiar sneakers. Instantly the hunger fades away, replaced with the unwelcomed confusion of relief. I don't even look him in the eye before turning away, headed back to my nest of pillows and blankets. I'm distinctly aware of him moving around behind me. I hear when he slips his shoes off at the door— at least he still remembers to do that. I strain my ears to listen to the thud of his sock covered feet as he heads into the kitchen, and I force my eyes to stay centered on the television, not wanting to acknowledge his presence when the couch dips and he sits next to me. I should scoot away, but I stay rooted in place.
"Foods on the counter…smells good" he lets me know, leaning in to plant a kiss on my warming cheek. I give no response besides turning my head away.
"Baby come on" he pleads into the space of my neck, gliding a hand around my shoulder to pull me into his side.
"not hungry anymore," I grumble. A bold faced lie and he knows it. I'm always hungry. The protruding stomach his hand caresses down being the reason. He lets it rest on my oiled belly, chuckling at the flurry of movement coming from inside upon the introduction of his husky voice. Traitor.
"I think someone else is though" he murmurs, still tucked into my neck. I can feel the tick of his jaw as he begins to lose patience at yet another lack of response. Feather light kisses tickle up my throat and across my cheek before making a home on the temple that I'm sure has a protruding vein across it. "I know you're mad at me baby, but I won't let you starve my child. Get in that kitchen."
"Why didn't you use your key?" I pondered aloud. The hand around my shoulder slivers down to meet the other around my midsection. "I wasn't sure if it would work" he mumbles, refusing to look me in the eye.
“Why wouldn’t—” He lands a chaste kiss on my stomach before quickly rising and making his way back to the kitchen. Casually questioning what I ordered along the way. Frustration and confusion create a sickening mixture and it dominates my ability to disregard his presence. Throwing the blanket to the side I stomp after him. For a moment I’m struck with a vision of a child behaving this same way, silently sending up a prayer for my own sanity before continuing on my pursuit.
“Why are you here?” I bluntly question, approaching the opposite side of the granite island.
“I live here” he responds without even lifting his head from digging around inside the brown paper bag. I still haven't broken the habit of ordering enough for the both of us and I'm sure he’s pleased to find his favorite inside.
“You used to live here, before—”
“before I left and said I wasn't coming back”
“exactly. Yet here I am seeing you again for some odd reason.”
“Where are the new ultrasound photos?” he muses munching on the crisps for the wonton soup, completely ignoring my last statement.
" I haven't heard from you in weeks"
"And whose fault is that — Are you keeping them in the room? I know you like to look at them before bed —I've called out for you every day and you've yet to respond, i'm not very happy about missing out on the opportunity to see my child—"
“Roman you haven't called me,” I interrupt his rambling and the look of confusion on his face has us both pausing. The silence becomes suffocating and I scramble to find something to fill it.
"Well, we’re fine. You can go now," is what I land on. His body reboots then, as if he were a robot in need of a battery change, he must be in need of a system reboot also because once again he ignores me. The chinese takeout I'd been craving the entire day calls out to me as he dishes it out onto two sparkling white plates. When he slides one in my direction it's like a peace offering that I'm hesitant to accept. Shuffling over to me he wraps his arms around my waist letting both hands caress my skin rocking us side to side in faux serenity. I’d already concluded that my baby was a traitor. Tiny feet and fists casting an array of small thuds anytime his voice was near and whenever his hands lay on my belly they seemed to crescendo.This moment was no different from all the others. It made my heart flutter even through the irritation for the man that helped create those small feet. I want to bask in this moment and yet all I could think about while he lay his hands upon my silky skin was if after this he’d up and leave again.
"let me fix this" he coos, reading my mind. I want to ignore him and keep myself present in this moment, but his utterance has me gripping the lapel of his shirt.
"let you fix it?" The look on his face is sickeningly sincere. I can't tell if it's his proximity or the baby but tears well in my eyes, quickly flooding over.
"You’re not even trying " I blubber, dropping my head to his chest. Tears continue to cascade down my cheeks and he just holds me in the ruin.
"I know baby. I'm sorry.”
“Why aren’t you trying?” I cry, My words echoing around us as if I'd spoken into a microphone forcing him to hear my pleasing. The response he gives is seemingly muddled by my tears. Lifting my head to stare at his face, his mouth is moving, yet his words come out mangled, a distorted language that I cannot decipher. Miscommunication often sounds as such. He tries again, this answer is identical to his last attempt. My puzzled reaction silences him.
“I don’t understand,” I choke out silently begging for him to elaborate. A sad smile graces his lips after hearing my words. Angling his body, he plants a lingering kiss along my forehead, giving my midsection one more gentle caress before backing away, doing what I asked of him just moments before, leaving. My feet are glued to the floor as I watch him stalk down the ever stretching hallway to the door.
“Roman please help me understand,” I call after him to no avail, attempting to pry my feet from the tile. The harder I try, the further the distance between us grows. I watch as he bends to reapply his shoes, untying and retying laces with nimble fingers. Rising from his folded position, he stands stock still for a moment, his head twisting and turning to take in his surroundings as if for the last time. He casts a longing look in my direction, the smile he sends me is genuine as if to convey his final affections. When his hand lands upon the door knob, my feet spring free and I brace myself to chase after him. Taking my first step just as that door swings open—
The blare of the alarm is loud and unwelcome. A radar resounding through my mind and bedroom. Peeling an eye open, I’m met with darkness. the only light being from the city beyond the window—absent of any curtains. Where are my curtains? The sun not even close to peaking over the horizon is cause for even further confusion.It was still the middle of the night. Why were alarms going off at this time? Slow movement on the other side of the bed sends me springing up, ready to get to the bottom of the vivid dream I’d just been torn from. Reaching my hand over to caress his back, I open my mouth to croak out his name.
“R—
A mumbled “I’m up” slices my thoughts in two. My body is doused in a cold sweat at the realization. This is not my apartment nor my bed. His alarm comes to a deafening end as he stands from the bed stretching his arms high over his head. Walking slowly to the ensuite bathroom, naked as the day he was born. Jason starts getting ready for work. I should follow suit, maybe i could convince him and Jey that I’m sick and can’t come in. I know he’ll be there tonight and I’m not sure my mind can sustain the torture of seeing him walk away again. None the wiser to the turmoil steamrolling my body, Jason emerges from the restroom; boxers on, tooth brush in hand. I watch him pad to the closet, searching for something to wear. A seed sprouts in my mind as i watch him till about, one that I’ve dug up and thrown out time and time again—guilt. This has to end.
This started off as something completely different like not even in true Dear Desperado universe, but it was 1am and my mind took a turn and i wrote this in like 40 minutes. I’m someone that likes to think that dreams show us what we can’t see while awake. fears, desires, even distorted realities. This is set about a week before clash in Paris, in the midst of damn near cyberstalking this man my girls mind has been active.
I’ll post a deep dive on how I’m interpreting it later because now that I’m fully awake my mind is seeing what i wrote and I’m so intrigued lol.
As always excuse any mistakes and i can’t wait to hear what you guys think, happy reading!
