𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒𑁤 most, if not all, things about your relationships easily fall under the category of unorthodox. a unique love story, to say the least. and the ending....well, that remains to be seen.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𑁤 angst. thorough themes, references, and discussions pertaining to mental health topics and pregnancy. brief reference to domestic violence.
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒𑁤 five thousand, eight hundred, and some change (5k+)
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𑁤 roman reigns x plussize!black!reader
𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𑁤 photos from pinterest and instagram. title graphic by me. dividers by @/cafekitsune
𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐎𑁤 ❝how will i know❞ by sam smith
𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𑁤 this was originally a 2k outtake that didn't fit the timeline for the first part. thus, it was scrapped. decided to post it, but i needed to "finish" it off, and it somehow ended up almost 6k....hate it here.
For the first time since you two boarded his private jet, Roman flits his gaze from the ceiling over to you. His eye contact has been everywhere and elsewhere for the past almost hour, but this time, he’s not looking at the obsidian bottle you're holding. Fingers spread and splayed over the cream wrapping. What it is, you haven’t a clue. You’d just asked for something “good,” and the nice flight attendant with a pointed nose and freckles spackled over her T-zone honored your request.
The shit is very good.
Or maybe you’re just that bored.
You can fully understand why Roman asked you almost three times if you were sure you wanted to attend this PLE with him. International travel wasn't unfamiliar. You’d traveled overseas—Jamaica—the summer before your senior year of high school, and while it wasn’t a super long flight, it was the longest one you’d been on. Not the easiest, but not the worst, either. Stupidly, you’d put two completely different examples juxtaposed and were now paying the price.
Not even an hour in, and you’re already over it.
Doesn’t help that it was such a short turnaround time, either. Granted, the initial plan was to stay an additional day or two. Do some exploring. Despite politics you find egregious, sexist, and misogynistic, Saudi Arabia, geographically speaking, is a beautiful ass country.
It’s also a country Roman was eager to get the fuck out of following the disaster that was Crown Jewel.
Hence the sour ass mood he’s been in since he walked into gorilla, his cousin, Jimmy, flanked on his side attempting to butter him up with toxic positivity that only earned him a glare and silence that extended all the way to their ride back to the hotel.
Even now.
A part of you wishes that you knew what to say to help him feel better, but on top of still not being completely clear on the full backstory of how his family ended up so fractured and divided, you’re just….not good with that shit anyway.
Blind leading the blind.
The almost squeaking sound from across drags your eyes from your lap to the man now leaning over and reaching for the bottle. You chuckle and oblige, handing it to him, studying the way he reclines, head tilted back, liquid swimming down his throat. The slight scowl from the aftertaste and brief shake of his head followed by him falling back into that funk.
It’s gotta be the therapy you’ve been surprisingly consistent with the past month paying off that gives you a ridiculous, sudden boost of confidence. A fleeting desire to at least try to lift his spirits.
“There’s always next time.”
He waits until he’s downed his second swish, glare set on you, the same tone he’d used with his cousin. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“I think we both know there’s nothing that could make you feel better right about now.” You roll your eyes, pulling your legs up to your chest. The sleeve of your shirt—his shirt—hanging off your shoulders, exposing your hot pink bra strap. “You lost that chance when you took that pin.”
Regret immediately fills you at your unfiltered, unintended shot at a man who was already down. Has, in many ways, been down since the night you both met and married him. Some of that down, no doubt, a result of your own actions.
Though the same could be said for the other way around.
He snorts, placing the bottle down on the tray beside the cream, leather seat. “Surprised you got the terminology right.”
Him not snapping and slinging that mud right back at you is…surprising but appreciated. Maybe those therapy sessions as part of your overall treatment have been helpful for him, too. Or maybe not because if that were the case, his other cousin, Jey, wouldn’t still hold such a level of animosity towards him. So much so that it ultimately played a large role in the disaster that was this match.
But also….if anyone knows that some bridges are burned beyond the point of repair, it’s you.
You know it all too well.
It’s what shifts the tide. Makes something turn in your stomach as you mush your lips, doing your best to string words together in a way that’s helpful vs harmful.
Lord knows you’d played your role of villain far too well over the past few months.
“You’ll figure all this out.” Roman once again looks over at you. That same guarded, irritated expression unchanging. “The fact that he agreed to even team with you and Jimmy has to mean something, right? He could have just told you to fuck off.”
Roman's reply is almost instantaneous. “He did.”
Despite the indirect rejection of what’s probably a poor attempt at comforting, it doesn’t deter you. Confuses you initially, sure. But then you realize he’s referring to Jey’s conduct throughout the match. The lack of cooperation. “Maybe.” You shift in your seat, shrugging your shoulders. “But he still showed up. Still tried. In his own way….and so did you.”
That’s when you see it. The subtle softening of his harsh, sharp features. The flick of his tongue to the corner of his mouth. It encourages you in a way that you can’t quite explain. “Trust me. If anyone knows about this whole fucking everything up and then trying to fix it shit, it’s me.”
Another quick reply, this one with a less austere tone. “Line starts behind me.”
And for the first time in a while, you smile. Not forced for the camera, a post or video to upload, perpetuating and maintaining a fraud that felt like it’d become your norm. A genuine, fucking smile.
“Well, make room for me next to you or something.”
And for the first time all night, he smiles.
You bite down on your bottom lip, lowering your legs to the ground. Eye contact locked as you close the distance between the two of you, assisted by the way he reaches and tugs you onto his lap. Your arms wrap around his neck as his do around your waist, big hands dropping to palm your ass through your thick, gray sweats.
“It’ll all work out,” you repeat, voice softer. “It sucks right now, but….” The swipe of his tongue over that soft, thick bottom lip is all the encouragement that you need with the thought that crossed your mind the minute he pulled you close to him. “Then again….”
Th lines around his eyes make an appearance, deepening and creasing as you climb off his lap. Dragging your palms down his chest, you drop to your knees. A flash of something in his iris when your fingers toy with and snap the band of his own sweats before smoothing over his thighs, gentle force making them part just enough for you to shuffle between them. “Not everything that sucks is bad.”
May, 2026
Your lips pressed together as you hum quietly to Mari's latest single clashes with the dark flooring as you make your way into the kitchen. But it's a sound that ceases when you’re met with the surprising sight of your husband’s broad back as he stands near the island.
“Hey, babe.” You kiss him on the cheek, sauntering past and depositing your Gucci bag onto the counter. “I thought you’d still be at the gym.” Because Lord knows this man’s gym sessions are already long as hell, but ever since he won the WHC, they’ve been even more ridiculous. Twice, sometimes up to three times a day. His morning and evening ones are typically done at home, but the afternoon one he gets in at Paragon. The elite, private gym he’s a member of that has a ridiculous monthly membership fee and perks that seem like something out of a movie.
It still blows your mind sometimes just how wealthy he is. You weren’t exactly living in poverty before meeting him, having been one of the luckier ones who makes a decent amount of money off your various platforms. But your manic episodes often included reckless spending, so much so that it’d greatly depleted what was, at one time, a hefty savings account. You’ve built it back up, and then some, since being with Roman. But if not for him….
You shake your head, willing the thoughts away.
It’s best you not go there.
“Finished a lil’ early.”
In the midst of opening up the refrigerator to pull out the cranberry juice, it’s his tone that immediately ceases your actions.
Something…something is off.
Bumping the door closed with your hip, bottle in hand, you turn your attention back towards him only to instantly still, ajar mouth frozen in place.
He’s still standing near the island, black, sleeveless Nike fitted shirt clinging to his chest, and while your eyes start to travel the length of his sculpted arms, something else takes precedent.
The bag.
And not even the large TJ Maxx bag on the counter in as much as it is the contents that you immediately make out via the brief, exposed portion of a striped, pink and white onesie sleeve.
Fuck
But if there’s one thing you’ve always been good at, it’s saving face.
Your hand tightens around the bottle, condensation dripping and melting between your fingers. “Oh.” You clear your throat, opening the closest cabinet to pull out a glass. “That.” You shake your head, back towards him while you fill the cup to the halfway mark. “Yeah, I was clearly in an episode. Hence why it was in the donation pile.”
“Y/N—”
“What? You going through my stuff now?” The teasing tone of your voice is intentional, a smirk on your face as you turn around and take a sip. Licking the rim with a wink. “Making sure I’m not getting rid of any of your memorabilia, old man?”
One look at his unchanged expression, however, tells you everything you need to know. You can’t charm your way out of this one.
A heavy sigh precedes the way you shake your head and place the cup back down on the counter. “Come on, Rome. It’s not a big deal.” Walking over, something tightens in your chest when you reach for the bag, hand hovering over the exposed item. It takes a second for you to push through it. Your eyes lift to his as you shove the onesie back with the rest of the pieces. “Seriously. It’s—”
“Y/N.” His deep voice cuts through your poor attempts at damage control once more. His eyes focused on you, peeling back every protective layer you’d attempted to frantically and desperately create. “This wasn’t just from one episode.” He gestures with a head nod, reaching to open what you wish nothing more to shove and throw away. God, something told you to load up your car before you left for your nail appointment. His hand messes around with the countless number of brand new, tag still on em’ baby clothes before he looks at you. “You’ve been buying this stuff, haven’t you?”
Lying has never done you any good, and you’ve worked so hard to be honest with him. But you also are in no mood to have this conversation.
“It’s not—“
The hand not gripping a 3 to 6 month white shirt with a rainbow on the front grabs the back of the bar stool. He drags it across the floor and motions with his eyes. A part of you wants to protest, find a reason to leave, to deflect. But you also know your husband. Know that look.
It’s why you decide to not drag this out any longer than need be.
You sit down.
Smoothing your hands over your exposed thighs, the desire to tuck and play with the hem of your skirt is a hell of a lot more interesting and desirable than focusing on the way he pulls out the chair opposite of you. Places it so that he’s sitting directly across from you. Your attention only subtly shifting to him when he leans over just enough so his elbows are on his knees, hands clasped together. As much as you really don’t want to have this conversation right now—or ever—something about the way he won’t look at you, stares at the ground, is unsettling.
Especially since you know he’s not upset.
Roman’s anger is never quiet. It’s loud and always makes itself known. Any emotion similar or adjacent to that short, red creature is always visible and never hidden. Even in the early stages of development.
This is none of that.
Truth be told, you don’t know what this is.
You just know that you don’t like it.
Shifting in your seat, raking your nails over your thighs, you muster up the courage to break the silence. “Roman—”
“I want to have a child with you, Y/N.”
Acrylic tips wedged into your soft skin, toes curled against the bottoms of your YSL flip-flops, any non-verbal actions that you were in the midst of are immediately paused. Thinking, feeling, existing, and everything else in between also immediately halted to a sudden, abrupt pause in production.
Did he….
No…
He couldn’t have.
But reality is suddenly turned upside down when he lifts his head, looks you dead in the eye, and doubles down on what you’d thought was imagined. “I want us to have a child together.”
All you can do is blink. Once. Twice. Thrice. Stare and wait for the other shoe to drop. For him to cut the bullshit on this cruel joke.
He doesn’t.
Not even close.
He licks his lips, gaze collapsing once more. His jaw shifting before his words come out slower, quieter even. “You were right when you said I go back and forth. I do.” He shakes his head, rolling his neck. “But it’s not because I don’t know what I want. I do.”
“Roman…”
“I just….” He swallows. “I can handle when you’re manic. It’s not easy. Hell no, but….I’ve learned now what to do. What you need.”
And you don’t disagree in the slightest. Like many other individuals living with Bipolar 1, when you’re in the midst of a manic episode, one of your symptoms includes a heightened sex drive. And for a man who possesses just that without a mental health diagnosis in his medical chart, that worked just fine for him. Everything else—the lack of sleep, impulsive spending, risky behavior—he’d created parameters to protect you. Ensuring to essentially stay with you at all times, taking and hiding your wallet and car keys. Even your phone during earlier, more extreme episodes.
Essentially holding you hostage from the dangers that are you when you’re not in the right frame of mind. At the beginning, at the time, you hated it. Hated him. Told—screamed—at him just that.
Now….now, you’ve never been more grateful.
“What I can’t handle….” Your eyes hone in on the way his voice falters and something indecipherable flashes in his eyes. “—is the other one.” He looks at you once more, displaying it all without any reservation. “When you’re depressed.”
Your lips press together, hands shifting to the side of the stool. Cool metal under your palm, closing and tightening.
Despite only knowing him for a few years, you’ve probably talked to and with Roman more than anyone else in your life. And not once has he ever expressed anything like this. Despite there being a what and what with your manic and depressive episodes, because the consequences of the former have always been more….drastic, the latter hasn’t really been a thing touched on.
Not like this.
“You completely shut down,” he continues, licking his lips, voice even but strained. “Shut out everything and everyone, including me, and I don’t know how to get through to you when you get like that.” It’s not until then you realize that the reason the sight of him before you is suddenly blurred is because of the tears forming and brewing in your eyes. Even with the distorted image, there’s no mistaking the frown on his face. “I don’t know how to help you, and it freaks the fuck out of me.”
For whatever reason, it’s not until then that it hits you. Perhaps for the first time since he started speaking, you see it. Hear it, even. The uncertainty. The anxiety, almost. It’s….disarming, in some ways. Roman has always been the definition of confidence. Arrogance, really. Even the night you met when he looked like he’d just been kicked while already down, and he had in many ways. But he still held this….regality about him. It was always so attractive. Admirable. Seeing someone who was always so…..so sure of himself.
Thus, him sitting in front of you and openly speaking in such a vulnerable way….it’s the last fucking thing you expected him to say.
But he’s not wrong.
As chaotic and erratic your manic episodes are/were, you’d always said that you’d take those over your depressive episodes any day. While manic, you feel any and all the things. While depressed, you feel nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.
Anhedonia, as you’d learned through therapy. The inability to feel pleasure or joy. Or anything.
You’d lay in bed, sometimes days at a time. Unable to move. Unable to speak. Completely and totally quiet. If you weren’t crying, you were sleeping. And if you weren’t doing that, you were offering nothing more than a soft shake of the head and small shrug to any and all of Roman’s questions.
And there were always plenty.
He bent over backwards, offered anything and everything he could, but nothing pierced the dense veil of depression.
The worst of which resulted in a 5150.
“The fact that you can get so low, and I can’t pull you from it scares the fuck out of me.” The bombs continue to drop, as does the feeling in her stomach. He pauses again, swallowing deeply. “How am I supposed to help you if you have an episode while pregnant? And if I can’t help you, how am I supposed to help our kid if he or she needs it?”
The corner of your lips twitch, tears briefly piling before spilling past your jaw. “Roman, I—”
“And you know me. You know that I don’t like talking about this shit. Admitting shit like this.” It’s true. He doesn’t, and now knowing what you know, you can understand why his mood would always fluctuate so quickly around the subject. Like most things, it was easier for him to lash out, say mean shit, than it was to be honest.
You can sort of relate.
Can understand.
“But seeing the baby clothes today,” he continues, standing up and moving towards you. It’s only then that you sniffle, quickly wiping at your eyes that are soon fixed on him when he cups your face. His frown has deepened, his voice whispered. “The fact that you’ve been buying them…” He thumb swipes away another roll of fresh tears. “That you were trying to get rid of them—”
You shake your head, refusing to allow him to take on anymore guilt that he already holds. “I didn’t—I shouldn’t have purchased them in the first place.”
It was such an unintentional thing. Started out so small. Out at the store, casually walking through the aisles. You’d always felt something stir within whenever you had to walk past the kids section. Especially when passing racks of adorable baby clothes. Would sometimes allow yourself to look, to peruse, but the goal was never to purchase.
You weren’t being completely dishonest with him. Some of the many, various items of baby clothing were, in fact, being purchased in the midst of a manic episode. Where you truly believed that it was a necessary purchase given it being only a matter of time before you conceived. Had already envisioned and imagined how adorable your baby boy or girl would look in the three piece outfit.
But other times…..perhaps most of the time, you weren’t manic, and you certainly weren’t depressed. You were in that sweet, safe spot in between. And somehow, that seemed to hurt the most. Holding the items, sometimes with tears in your eyes because while they ended up being scanned and bagged as part of your overall purpose, each quiet drive home was driven with a single thought.
It’s never going to happen.
By the time you’d get home, you’d have changed your mind. Reflected and thought on comments and conversations where Roman referenced your future children. It’s what led you to keep them. To keep buying them. On the hopes of a what if. But gathering clothes to donate to local shelters in conjunction with the most recent, hardest conversation regarding children had finally carried you to the realization and acceptance that seemed like the most likely to occur.
And it wasn’t a pregnancy.
Thus, you ignoring your tears and the throbbing in your chest as you bagged up all of the items you’d purchased and ordered, forcing yourself to stop believing and waiting on a dream that was never intended to be anything more than that in the first place.
A dream.
“But you did,” he counters, softly. “And that means something, Y/N.”
Again, all you can do is look at him, stare and continue to be stunned and floored by words you never could have anticipated hearing today. If ever.
But if your husband, one of the most emotionally stunted men you’ve ever met, is capable of pushing past discomforts and knocking down walls, then you can, at the very least, do and offer the same.
You look down, covering your hands over his, gently dragging them down so you’re holding them in your lap. Brushing your own thumbs over his coarse knuckles. One of your fleeting thoughts being that he must have hit the bag today only for you to realize that of course he did.
It’s always been one of his favorite stress relievers.
“Do you….do you remember the big fight we had?” For the first time since you entered the home, humor briefly entangles with intensity. Specificity for a thing that was the norm for far too long is most definitely a requirement. “The first one regarding pregnancy.” Where you said no. “You—you said something to me that night. Something that….” Your tongue darts over your dry lips, voice hoarse, his eyes focused intently on you. “At the time, I hated you for.”
One could argue this sentiment has been felt several times over in the span of two years, mostly in the early, turbulent stages. But none more than that night.
“Fine, if you don’t wanna fucking say it, then I will,” he’d snapped. Anger and frustration painting his face and the tips of his ears red. The room around you two in disarray. Shattered glass littered across and meshed within the Persian rug. Both from the lamp you’d thrown and the one he’d shattered with a single swipe of his arm. A chair flipped over in the corner, and the TV still running in the background. The only sense of normalcy in that moment. “You know why you wanna have a kid so fucking bad?” He’d stepped closer, your fingers tightening around the neck of the half drunk bottle of wine in hand. Seconds away from joining the other broken, irreparable things. Much how you felt about your marriage in that moment. “It’s not cause you actually want to be a mother.” In that moment, you knew. Just knew what he was about to say. And even that level of preparation in the face of his stoic expression and sneer didn’t spare you the cascade of emotions. “It’s cause you just wanna prove to yourself that you’re not her. That you’re not your own mother.”
Your eyes shut, the memory reigniting another set of emotions, an evident revisiting given the way he attempts to pull his hands from you. To comfort you, you’re sure.
“I shouldn’t have—”
“You were right,” you whisper, allowing yourself to voice for the first time a realization you’d had in therapy a few months prior. “I hated you because….because you were right.” His subtle movements and efforts to comfort you are temporarily halted in the midst of a truth you know he didn’t expect to hear.
“Y/N….”
“My biggest—” Shutting your eyes once more, you’re taken back to a different time and place. The soft cushion behind your head and under your body. Hands clasped over your stomach, eyes still shut, the soft, soothing voice of your therapist walking you through a mindfulness exercise grounding you in a moment you’ve never needed it more. Keeping you on two steady, metaphorical, and literal feet. “My biggest fear in life was—is—ending up like her.”
“That’s why....” Another thick swallow, emotion stirring for another heavier round. The swipe of your tongue over your bottom lip met with a salty taste on the tip of your tongue. Tears. “That’s why I pushed back on getting help for so long. I felt like—like that made it real. That it made me her.”
If someone told you a couple years ago you’d ever be confessing this aloud to your husband who’s 16 years your senior and someone you met and married in under twenty four hours, well, you’d perhaps not not believe them. But it’d 100% be the actions that were contained within a manic episode. However, you’ve never been more sane and regulated than in this moment. A weight unloaded in the most unexpected of ways.
“But I know now that just because we shared the same diagnosis doesn’t mean we’re the same person. She made her decision. She chose not to live anymore.” A beat. “And I chose to finally start living.”
He takes a small breath as you manage a small smile that’s dimmed seconds later by the reminder of additional truth that you’d prefer to keep to yourself. It’s not an option though. It’s not an option because it serves no purpose other than to self-sabotage. There has never been a better moment than now to acknowledge even the most uncomfortable, heartbreaking of truths.
“I, uhh, I went to the doctor before we left for Italy. Just…” Once more, the burden of truth causes you to stammer, but you manage to power through. Slightly aided by the way you intermittently allow your gaze to focus on your still conjoined hands. A metaphorical representation of union and togetherness that’s saved you in so many ways. “Just wanted to know where I stand, fertility wise, if we were….”
Breathe
Roman says something, or starts to, and while you hate to interrupt him once more, you know yourself well enough to recognize that if you don’t get this out now, there’s a good chance you’ll find a way to keep it to yourself.
As you’ve done since you found out.
“My….ovarian reserve is significantly lower than it should be for someone my age. Like….a lot.” A forced, inauthentic chuckle accompanied by another wave of tears that stream down your reddened cheeks. “Like….’the chances of me conceiving naturally and without medical assistance is slim to none’ a lot.”
And while your doctor, the sweetest woman with a gentle disposition, warm and maternal, approached the conversation with a cherished delicacy, it wasn’t difficult for you to read between the lines. To decipher what she didn’t want to say for fear of crushing what she knows to be your dreams of motherhood.
That IVF is your best bet if you ever wish to have and carry a child.
And even that’s not guaranteed.
Revisiting the conversation takes a heavier toll on you than expected. It’s when you lift your hand to wipe away at the tears that seem to be coming with increased frequency and flow is when Roman takes advantage. Moves his hands to your waist, attempting to pull you into him. Sympathy, empathy, and everything else floating between the two of you.
“Y/N—”
“I think it’s just a sign, ya know.” Shaking your head, eyes naturally closing, it’s hard to tell who you’re trying to convince. Him or yourself. God knows it’s nothing you haven’t repeated a dozen times over. Sometimes it feels as though it’s working. Other times, it feels like nothing more than pouring waning hope into a bottomless cup with a hole so far deep that you don’t even realize your efforts are nothing more than a waste of time and energy.
“Y/N—”
“Motherhood clearly isn’t in the cards—”
“Y/N.”
Roman already has a commanding voice. Deep and smooth. It’s almost impossible to not be lulled in. But the way he says your name, needing and demanding your attention, easily snaps your eyes open onto his. Your lips part softly when he lifts one hand to the back of your neck. Leans in closer to where his cologne mingles with your perfume. Just another form of connection.
“Do you want this?”
For a moment, you’re taken back. Same place. Same people. Different environment. Destruction, broken, ruined items surrounding the shattered mess that was the both of you. Defeat never so prominent. He’d asked you the very same thing, just with a completely different meaning, exhaustion painted over his handsome face. The faint bruise under his eye similar to the one he had when you met, but that one was received via valiant efforts to retain. This one….this one was the one you’ll never be able to truly forgive yourself for.
“Roman—“
“Do you want this, Y/N?” He repeats himself, the hand on your waist squeezing and pulling just enough to where you stand up. Your hands naturally rest on his stomach, hardened and sturdy under your shaking, sweating palms.
There’s an initial attempt to protest that dies out in the face of acknowledgment.
Do you want this?
It’s the same question you asked yourself on the drive home from the appointment. Especially as you laid in bed that evening, scrolling and researching for hours on end about what options might exist. The top of most lists being IVF, and with that, as many horror stories as there were successes.
Countless attempts before successful implantation.
Countless attempts that never bore any results.
Women who’d tried every treatment option known to medical science only to have nothing to show for it except empty pockets and a broken heart.
You know that first one would never be the case. Not with the tax bracket Roman is in. But that second one….
It’s dangerous. In a variety of ways. What would it do to you mentally? To try, get your hopes up, only for nothing to come of all your efforts? Just imagining the scenario is heartbreaking enough. But for it to be your reality…
And then there’s the other side of it. The one where, at the end of it all, you have a beautiful, healthy baby boy or girl. It makes your chest fill and bloom with warmth and joy.
All things you’d expressed and discussed in your most recent therapy session, an extra that you’d, wisely, requested after finding out the news.
News that, now you think of it, also largely contributed to your ultimately deciding to discard of the baby clothes.
It was….too painful of a reminder.
However, the situation feels almost entirely reversed as you stand before your husband who’s finally and truthfully expressed his stance on this. Confirmed what you’d deep down wanted so badly to believe was the truth but also couldn’t verify in the face of countless objections and otherwise expressed sentiments.
A what if morphed into an actual possibility.
The process of trying to conceive is a journey and experience for most women, and many, as you’d learned through research, do require at least some form of assistance to actually achieve that conception. In that, you weren’t unique. The added layer of navigating that and your mental health struggles just put you in a slightly different category. A riskier one.
But a statement and unanswered question posed by your therapist returns to the forefront of your mind.
“This isn’t a matter of what’s the best option, sweetie.” You’d kept your focus on your lap, picking at your nails as she probed into your mental in a way that was both unnerving and appreciated. Necessary, especially. “It’s a matter of what decision, long-term, do you foresee negatively impacting you the most.” You can still feel the way you chest tightened moments before she laid it all out in no unclear terms. “Never trying and having to live with that ‘what if’ or trying and having to accept the possibility of it not working out the way you wanted it to.
Unknown vs Disappointment.
You didn’t have an answer to give then.
You have one now.
“Yes.”
And maybe it’s your own subconscious desires playing a cruel, mean trick on you, but you could almost swear there’s a brief flash of relief in his expression.
Like….like he’s happy.
“Then we’ll do it,” he announces, that thumb caressing the nape of your neck a soothing, gentle gesture. “We find out whatever specialist you need to see, whatever treatment you need, see what it specifically entails, if you’re mentally and physically up for it, and take it from there….alright?”
There’s something immensely comforting about the way he emphasizes and includes the tentative nature of it all. Highlights that consenting to trying does not equate consenting to doing. Learning the specifics, the risks, and everything else is truly where the hardest decision will need to be made. And as much as he has a say in it, too, at the end of the day, it’s your call to make. Your body that will have to undergo and sustain all the prickling and prodding.
Your mental that might be tested in ways you’ve never experienced before.
It’s frightening, for sure. Daunting and terrifying. Yet all of that fright and fear is readily eased by the reminder that you don’t have to face it alone.
Not even a little.
It’s what makes you lean up, arms secured around his neck as he hikes you up onto his waist. You smile and laugh into his neck, sniffling and whispering, “I love you.”
His quiet chuckle and the kiss to your temple accompanying a light squeeze of your ass and quiet but equally heartfelt, “I love you, too.”
a/n: if you've read some of my other content, you know i'm a whore for fleshing things out. in reality, and as reflected by the dates in this one and the first part, this "conclusion" would take time. even longer than what's reflected in these two pieces. but for the sake of answering the biggest question most of ya'll have, i gave you this.
was very very tempted to reveal at the end that it was all a dream. reader was just dreaming roman's confession, and it ended with them essentially realizing there's no way they can make this work. her wanting kids and him not. implied separation/divorce being the outcome. but i didn't want ya'll to cuss me out lmao
lastly, i almost wrote the first part being completely different in that reader shared with roman she was pregnant, and he wasn't happy. him wanting her to get an abortion because she knew how he felt. her not wanting to, especially when he knew she wasn't on birth control. thus, this super complicated, controversial scenario where it's, 'is he wrong for considering walking away even though she knew how he felt?" idk. that just seemed too complex and layered for a oneshot.
For the key west shorts, I would loveee to see them around the time babygirl was first born or even when Capri was pregnant with her. I’m so obsessed with them i just wanna know everything!🤍🤍
𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐄.
lessons learned from the trials and tribulations of your miscarriage, roman is firm on ensuring he doesn't miss a beat during your early pregnancy with lorelei. but when he flies you out to lounge backstage at a show, you aren’t thrilled. you thought break ups entailed separation.
content | toxic dynamics.
𝄞 “i love you so much i cannot lose you so. i heard about soulmates i've never gotten this close. i'm so close. so close. so close to making it real.” 𝄞
KEYWEST!VERSE | white bone: the smau. | 7k.
Apart from the low murmur of commentary from the announcers table on the mounted screen, the dim, private dressing room is otherwise quiet.
Silent, still, and serene, just as you prefer. Any alternative in your current state would most likely earn the nearest individual a death glare.
Just three months in and the ease in which you become irritable over even the slightest offense has become one of the biggest hallmarks of your pregnancy; the temperature being set one degree higher than you usually prefer, even the sound the friction certain pillowcase fabrics make under your ear at night. You’re so sensitive to everything around you, so when the pendulum that is your emotion swings, it swings far.
But tonight, you’re particularly irritated. Even more so than usual.
It’s your first time at Madison Square Garden, never mind New York City, so you should be in brighter spirits. Yet, it’s the last place in the world you want to be because Roman, too, is here.
Approximately a year and a month ago, that wouldn’t be an issue. In fact, it’d be something of an incentive. You’d come out to support him and watch from your pick of the litter: either his dressing room, the arena’s suite, or ringside. You’d always tend to opt for anything but the latter. Meek by nature, sitting front row always comes with millions of eyes you’re simply inclined to shy away from. But since then, circumstances have changed. Drastically.
He’s not your man anymore. And he hasn’t been since he cost you that lucrative partnership with the World Surf League.
The business opportunity presented itself at South Bay, the exclusive coastal Country Club you’ve been granted access to ever since he added you to his membership plan in 2018. The year you met.
At a charity event you were invited to on behalf of Sunburnt, you were introduced to the Event Director of the WSL. A man that goes by the name of Lucian Montclair. A businessman, a bachelor, and a sight for sore eyes— not that you were looking. He spoke to you a little bit about the WSL; how they’re the premier home of global competitive surfing and that they’re making Key West an annual stop for their championship tournament, and that, if you were interested, he’d like to open a line of communication between the two of you because they’re also looking for local businesses in the surfing scene to partner with and they have their eyes on Sunburnt.
Initially, it’s purely a business relationship.
For Lucian, somewhere along the way, that changes. Perhaps during the millions of meetings you had with him and his team, with locations varying from the Country Club itself to hotspots around town, both the expensiveness of the restaurants and the time you met him at increasing with each incremental progression into the deal. Gradually, he grew fond of you.
Too fond.
When you brought Roman to one of the WSL’s black tie events and introduced the two men, it didn’t take him long to pick up on it. On the way Lucian would laugh while looking at you when one of his peers cracked a corny joke. On the way he couldn’t help but look over at you when you weren’t looking. On the way he kept trying to passive aggressively belittle professional wrestling as a legitimate sport in front of you.
Roman tried to control his temper as best as he could for your sake.
Your excitement about the opportunity and what it could do for Sunburnt as a brand was palpable. That type of strategic collaboration could send you to an entirely different stratosphere if you played your hand right.
The position the cosign of such a conglomerate could place Sunburnt was nothing to scoff at.
He knew he was on thin ice as it was. His jealousy had always been a problematic fork in the road of your relationship, and you two were just starting to recover from the fallout of the deceptive ‘girls trip’ Anastasia took you on to Portofino, Italy. A period in which you spent many nights sleeping in the guest bedroom because as true as it may be that he didn’t fall for their bait, you were still deeply upset that he’d made them comfortable enough to believe their plan could even work in the first place.
You two were still on fragile ground. You weren’t out of the woods.
It all came to a head during Solar Flare, the summer surf festival hosted by the town of Key West. Lucian and a sparse group of interns on behalf of the WSL were set to attend and promote their Championship Tournament that would be stopping in the island in just a few short months.
You were surprised to see Roman making his way onto the beach during the set-up of Sunburnt’s canopy tent during one of your treks back and forth from the shop to the sand. He’d just landed from his flight home the night prior, and you wanted him to catch up on some sleep. But as tired as he was, he’s never liked the thought of you doing manual labor when he’s around. Or even when he isn’t for that matter. So he took the crate of merch and apparel from your hands and took it to the tent as you returned to the shop to get more.
Lucian tried to make conversation with him to fill the silence while Roman put the tent together. Small talk, shit he can’t stand from someone he can’t stand. But it went unbelievably left when Lucian’s chuckle bled into a comment underneath his breath about how ‘this must be what Capri is always talking about.’
A comment that grabbed Roman’s attention, no question.
“What?”
Lucian shrugs. “Nothing, man. Never mind.”
Roman blinks. After a beat, he places the metal plate of the tent down. “Nah. What’d you just say?”
“I’m just saying man.”
“Saying what? You talking to my girl about me?”
“She’s the one doing the talking, bro. Take that up with her.”
The force of Roman’s right hook connecting with Lucian’s jaw disorients him long enough to catch him off guard with another one. In the blink of an eye, the two men are on the ground wrestling for leverage.
Roman, on top, sends relentless bone-cracking punches to the face until he hears bystanders yelling and running to them in the distance. The split second it takes him to peer up at the stranger trying to pull him off is all Lucian needs to grab the small metal pole lying on the ground and swing it at Roman’s nose.
“FUCK!”
His face throbs hot, the sight of his own warm blood on his fingertips when he quickly presses it against his nostrils turning a switch off completely.
With a smaller crate in your hands, you only heard the ruckus when you rounded the corner of someone else's tent. It wasn't until you recognized the colors of clothing you saw a mere twenty minutes ago that everything in your hands dropped to the ground and your feet carried you to the crowd trying to rip them apart. And that’s when you saw the real carnage.
The blood stained sand.
The swollen knuckles.
Lucian’s groans of pain bleeding into the bystanders pleas for an ambulance. For 911.
Once the men were able to peel Roman off him, he stumbled to his feet and snatched his arms away to raise both palms into the air as his chest heaved— his fingers wiping at the blood on his busted lip.
But looking at Lucian… it made you queasy.
To say you were even irate with Roman would be an understatement. So much so that when the cops handcuffed him and took him to jail, you didn’t bail him out.
And the WSL pulling the plug on the partnership was the last straw.
You and him were over.
Nothing would get you to hear him out, not even the seven digit lump sum he wired you that he estimated would be the first year payout of the deal had it gone through. You didn’t care what he told you Lucian said to him to warrant what transpired, because none of that was about Lucian. It was about you. He knew what that meant to you. What it meant for Sunburnt. And he couldn’t help but ruin it for you anyway.
The tapping of knuckles on the door and the quiet creak as it opens diverts your attention from the segment broadcasted on the monitor, “Pri.”
You swallow the bite of the meatball marina sandwich you’ve been working on before slightly projecting your voice for direction in the spacious dressing room, “over here.”
On paper, Namina Baraz is the only child of your mother’s only sister. But ever since the summer your mother dropped you off at your aunt Yvette’s and never looked back, you’ve never seen her as anything less than your sister. Neither one of you, in good faith, could ever say you weathered a storm alone. Not the loss of Yvette after her short battle with cancer a few years ago, not the subsequent deep bout of depression Namina fell into, not the trials and tribulations of managing your inheritance of your aunt’s small surf shack by the shore.
When she calls, you answer.
When you call, she answers.
And call, you did.
Ever since Roman found out you were pregnant, he’d stripped his schedule so bare that even classifying him as ‘part-time’ is giving him too much credit— but this short string of appearances that conclude with tonight’s Madison Square Garden show, he is contractually bound to. Apparently, the string is far too long for you to go unsupervised despite only being in the tail end of your first trimester. Which is why he’s essentially forced you to fly out here.
And precisely why you’re so agitated. Because to you, he’s just using your pregnancy as an excuse to excerise control over you.
If you’re honest, you have no one to blame but yourself. You have never been more resolute about him as you were after he’d ruined that opportunity for you. After you broke it off for good. It was over.
Then you’d heard about them. About her. Around four months after the split, after four months of radio silence on your end despite the millions of messages that were left on read and phone calls that were declined, he’d starting seeing someone else. Mia.
It was the first time you’d called him since everything went down, and you let him know about himself. That he’s a liar. That if he was so quick to move on with her of all people, then they surely had something going on behind your back while you two were together regardless of what he told you when you got back from Italy. That he isn’t worth the fuck that made him.
All of which he silently took with a grin on his face on the other line, because all that passion meant you still cared. It wasn’t over.
Still, he maintained that he’s never stepped out on you not once, and that he and Mia are casual so she’s not his girl.
The phone call that broke that seal of no contact for the first time in four months tore the floodgates open again. Armed with the knowledge that you’d never even look at him again if you truly believed he cheated on you, he’d started stopping by Sunburnt to bring you lunch on a daily basis. Just looking for a sliver of time to speak to you. You’d dub him, busying yourself with a customer and leaving him for Namina to deal with.
One time, he happened to catch you while you were closing. It was a rainy memorial weekend and the shop’s hours of operations ended at noon, the time of day he always stopped by. Your car was at the mechanic and Namina, who was supposed to give you a ride, double-booked her schedule after forgetting the holiday hours.
He followed you for three blocks in his car. His window rolled down and his foot barely on the gas to match your steps on foot, he tried to coax you into his car against your silent defiance. But the universe was on his side, because three blocks in, it started to pour. The type of rain you can’t see through.
His voice booms to outweigh the heavy pitter patter hitting the concrete sidewalk, “get in the fucking car before I come grab you and someone calls the cops on me, Capri. You’re gonna get pneumonia.”
In the passenger seat with your arms crossed and your head turned to the window, he didn’t give you any choice but to hear him out. He parked the car in a desolate spot near the ocean and dismantled the belief that he was unfaithful for two hours. And you only believed him once he swore it on the baby you two lost, which you were inclined to do because it was the first time he’d mentioned the sensitive subject since you lost her.
The relapse happened only once, six months into he and Mia’s situationship.
One night, you were feeling particularly bothered. You’d were missing him more than usual. What was he doing? Was he with her? Was he thinking of you? You two had been in casual communication ever since that clarifying conversation in the car so to quell the ache in your chest, you found yourself going through you and his’ recent messages.
The decision to send him a picture of you from your gallery was quick and impulsive. Two selfies from one batch, nothing too crazy. The casual finger on your parted lip in the second one, though, was flirty enough for him to bite.
Capri. 7:10PM
wrong person. sorry.
Roman. 7:14PM
Why’d you send me that?
Capri. 7:16PM
it was an accident.
Roman. 7:16PM
Right. Well. I miss you too.
Capri. 7:18PM
lmao no you don’t.
Roman. 7:18PM
Send me another one.
Capri. 7:18PM
You haven’t texted me in three days.🙄
Capri. 7:19PM
no. come see it in person.
That night three months ago, you two had the nastiest, most disrespectful sex you’ve ever had and you regretted it all in the morning.
You knew you were pregnant before you took the test. It was just intuitive. Every day that went by without your period was a day you pushed to the back of your mind simply because you just did not want to confront it. Then the relentless morning sickness kicked in, and left you no choice.
He’s stoic, “you’re pregnant.”
You blink down at the seven different brands of pregnancy tests laid out on the bathroom counter, your arms across your chest. “Yes.”
His eyes peer from the stick in his hand, to your eyes, and back. Then, he chuckles.
You whine and drop your arms from your chest to snatch the test from him, “this isn’t funny Roman! Why are you laughing?”
He follows you into the bedroom and leans on the doorframe, trying to hide his lax grin while you pace back and forth, “nah. It’s not funny. But I’m not about to act like I’m upset. I’m not. And you can’t be either. If I recall correctly, I gave you what you wanted. You’re the one that was begging me to nut ins—”
“Quit it. I’m being serious. I can’t be pregnant. This isn’t something you bring a baby into, Roman. Jesus Christ.”
A long pause. “What does that mean?”
“If this environment is already unhealthy for the both of us, what would it be for a baby? I mean, we’re not even together.”
His eyes are drawn onto a spot on the carpet as he reads between the lines of what you’re saying, “…you don’t think we’d be good parents?”
You’re wallowing in self-resentment. You’d freed yourself from his shackles for good and all but crawled on your knees to pick up the rusted steel off the floor and restrain your wrists back in them by your own will. You scoff and speak before thinking, “Roman you’re barely a good man.”
He blinks, “so I’d be a bad father.”
You stop pacing and stare at him with your bottom lip tucked between your teeth. Shit.
Under that thin veil of irritability that comes with the natural reshaping of pregnancy hormones, self-resentment has followed you like the trailing stench of cheap perfume throughout the entirety of your first trimester, souring nearly every interaction you’ve had with him ever since. Every doctor’s appointment. Every phone call. Every text message.
“Damn near got lost trying to find this room. Jesus.” Namina places her purse down on the coffee table when she gets close enough and reclines on the sofa beside you.
“Here.” You turn to grab the Firehouse Subs bag from the corner table behind you and place it on the sofa between the both of you.
You’ve only been without her for eight days now, but that’s also eight consistent days you’ve spent with Roman. The most you’ve spent with him since the break up, and the strain is starting to show— which is precisely why he’s flown her out this weekend. Perhaps some time with someone who isn’t him will offset the tension lining your shoulders.
“Heard me?”
“That you almost got lost? Yeah.”
She snorts at the view of you finishing off your sandwich and opens up the bag to inspect the contents Roman picked up before the show to satisfy the craving you’d mustered the courage to admit.
She grabs the Snapple and twists the top off before taking a cold sip, her eyes glued on her cousin. “Mia’s here.”
You turn away from the monitor and blink, your eyes gravitating towards the dressing room door. “You saw her?”
“On my way here, yeah.”
“She saw you?”
“Shit. I hope so. Otherwise it’d be a waste of an outfit.”
Typically, you’d laugh at that. It’d get a chuckle out of you at the least. Tonight, you do neither. You can’t, because you’re distracted by the gradual boiling of your blood. It starts off with a slight heat that increases incrementally until there’s a blazing fire in your chest.
You already can’t stand being here as it is, but for him to invite her on top of everything? You’re pissed off.
In all honesty, you pity the woman. Once you found out that nothing truly happened between them during the duration of the relationship like you believed when he started seeing her of all people, it became abundantly clear that he started seeing her so quickly to get a rise out of you. To hurt you like you hurt him.
But you vowed to never give him the satisfaction of a reaction over her pathetic ass again, and you don’t make empty promises.
Namina’s elbow rests on top of the sofa, her forehead pressed against her fist as low chatter emits from the broadcast on the screen. “How’s that going though? Him and her?”
You shrug carelessly and take a sip of your bottled water. “He’s barely anywhere else other than with me so I know it’s terrible for her. And I can’t for the life of me seem to care because that’s the type of pain she wanted for me.”
“You accept her follow request?”
“Nope.”
Two weeks ago, you logged onto your second instagram account. The private one meant for your close friends and family with eighty two followers. On it, you had a follower request from Mia’s public, verified profile.
She shakes her head, “good. I would’ve let it collect dust too. Slick trying to be on that kumbaya shit. Get the fuck on.” Namina, as is one of the only people who knows about what happened when you went to Italy on that July 4th, treats both Anastasia and Mia like they did it to her personally.
Just as you’re about to respond, the door creaks open.
Shirtless, breathless, and sweaty, Roman appears at the threshold— his hand ripping the velcro of the black glove off his other hand as he walks in.
His tone as diplomatic and matter-of-fact as always, his eyes land on your cousin. “Namina.”
She smirks at the deep contraction of his diaphragm in an attempt to regulate his breathing. “Mm. He tore your ass up, ain’t he?” she tsk’s and shakes her head in disappointment, “just as I was getting used to the sight.”
He breathes out a chuckle through his nose and looks at you. You’re looking back at him, but you aren’t laughing. Instead, you’ve just got that thousand yard stare in your eye.
After a beat, she clears her throat and grabs the bag you gave her and her purse off the coffee table. “I’m gonna head back to the Airbnb. I wanna beat the traffic. I’ll text you in the morning, ‘kay? Rita’s opens at noon.” You nod and let her hug you before she bids Roman goodbye and leaves the dressing room.
He sizes you up when a hush falls over the room, “you finish your sandwich?”
To clue him in without verbally responding to him, you ball up the empty paper your sandwich was packed into and place it in the plastic bag it came in before taking a swig of ice cold water as you maintain eye contact with him.
He exhales, “Capri.”
“I didn’t need to be here.”
“Yes you did.”
“I’m twelve weeks along. I don’t need supervision.”
He turns his back to you and slips his glove off, tossing it onto the shelf underneath the monitor— ignoring you in hopes that it’ll dead this conversation that he won’t entertain.
It’s the last sliver of disrespect from him you can take, “you’re such a fucking asshole.”
He props one foot up at a time onto the surface of a steel chair and bends at the hip to undo the laces of his sneakers and prepare for his shower, his eyes locked onto his pristine Jordans. Lowly, “yeah? And what else?”
“And I wish I never met you.”
His jaw tightens as he slips out of the shoe and switches to his other foot.
“And I hate that I’m tied to you forever now.”
The venom in your voice stops him in his tracks. He looks over at you, “because I want you with me instead of that house on your own while I’m away?”
“Because—”
No. He’s not getting the satisfaction.
“This is the first time I’ve made you fly out and I told you it won’t have to happen again since tonight is the last show before my schedule lightens up. Stop fussing with me, Pri. This is for your own good. There’s nothing I can do for you if I’m not with—”
“I want to go to the hotel. Now.” You untuck your feet from underneath your legs on the sofa and slip them back into your abandoned sandals on the carpet.
He stares at you for a moment when you divert your attention to your phone. In the five years that he has known you, you have never been this short tempered with him. It took some getting used to in the first few weeks, and sometimes he knows just how to pacify you, but sometimes you just wear him out. Right down to the white bone.
If a lesson is significant enough, he’s always been the type of man that only needs to learn it once. And nothing has ever been quite as significant as the violent sound of blaring horns, screeching brakes, your panicked gasp, and shattering glass on the other end of a phone call while there’s thousands of miles separating the two of you.
That night was just as traumatic for him as it was for you. So you can be as disgruntled as you want at the lengths his preventative measures go to. Leaving you by your lonesome is not a risk he’s willing to take.
His shower is cold and languid, just as he likes. The cool stream regulates his respiratory system, relaxing his muscles and lolling his heart rate to a steady gallop. He has half a mind to call for you and tell you to get in to reap the same benefits, a subtle smirk growing on his face under the shower head at the memory of you and him showering together and him twisting the temperature handle to frigid while your eyes were closed just to watch you shriek.
Once he gets out the shower, gets dressed, and neatly scoops his hair in his classic updo, he makes his way back out to the dressing room. He grabs your plastic bag as you grab your purse and mutters for you to come on.
Accustom to the cozy dimness of the dressing room for the past several hours, the corporate fluorescent lights of the arena halls are much harsher than you expect. In the few seconds it takes your pupils to readjust to the paleness, Trinity turns the corner and finds two figures stepping out of a dressing room in her natural line of sight. When she processes exactly who it is, a huge smile grows on her face and she starts beelining it towards you.
She can barely contain herself as she gets within earshot, “say it ain’t so.” Her excitement is as infectious as confetti and sprinkles.
You nod with a tight-lipped grin before she shrieks and pulls you into a tight hug, “oh my god. You know Jimmy’s mouth is the size of the great barrier reef and he still can’t manage to hold water. Congratulations! How do you feel?”
You tug a wisp of hair from out your face and tuck it behind your ear as she shoves Roman on his upper arm in jest, “thank you. Um, I’m good. Surprisingly. Really bad insomnia and I’m averse to certain scents, but that’s far and few in between. I’m thugging it out for the most part.”
As they chit chat, something urges Roman to look up.
In the distance past Trinity’s shoulders, who’s stood in front of them both, is Mia. She’s on the other side of the hall, leaning against the cinderblock wall as she talks to someone he can’t make out of. Her mouth stops moving when she too spots him, and then you, and then Trinity’s palm on your barely discernible stomach.
His brows furrow. Considering the origin of their little rendezvous, finding Mia backstage isn’t necessarily surprising. But it’s been a long time since the last time she made an appearance he didn’t know about ahead of time.
His lips rolled into his mouth, his sight flits back to you but you must already feel the heat of her gaze because your eyes happen to naturally travel to the other side of the hall for a second. Yet, despite the fact that you also spot her, your conversation with Trinity doesn’t miss a beat. You don’t seem to be caught off guard by her presence at all.
“Huh? Um. Yeah… Yeah, I’ll tell him.” Her eyes glued to your flat belly once Trinity removes her hand, Mia’s mouth is on autopilot, just absentmindedly rattling off whatever Irene needs to hear in the moment in hopes that it’ll conclude the conversation about the details she wants Mia to relay to her father for his upcoming Hall of Fame induction.
Irene doesn’t seem to get the hint, her voice distantly droning off more specifics as Mia’s heart slowly slips into a free fall on the tile she’s standing on, the violent pounding of her pulse blocking out any information from penetrating her eardrums.
You can’t be…
Are you?
When it came to you, she was only really aware of the fact that you and him were no longer together. The current state of the relationship, whether you two were still in contact or if you were on good terms, was always a big fat question mark. Due to the lax nature of his relationship with Mia, he’s never felt the need to divulge that type of intel no matter how many times her insecurities implied that she was curious.
It’s not her business. Letting her know would imply that she’s entitled to.
Which makes this all that much worse.
She knew something was off.
He’s been even colder than usual. Dodging calls and texts. Postponing one link up after another. Even becoming shorter with her when they speak.
The first sign of snowfall after the warmest summer in history is much more is jarring when it follows a million years of winter, which is why she’d shown up tonight. She’d probably hold the grudge that she was forming against him for a little longer before folding, but she’s become even more tender since they’ve started sleeping together.
Now, she just feels like a fucking idiot.
Irene says something that Mia quickly nods to before she finally walks away, and when Irene exits, Mia’s eyelids start getting warm. She exhales a shaky breath. She feels so fucking stupid. Of course. Of-fucking-course. She doesn’t even know why she tries sometimes.
“Okay. Okay. Okay. I just had to say something. I’ll let you go. I’ll call you later.” Trinity gives you a look that communicate that there’s a lot to be discussed as she backs away before turning around and leaving.
Your smile gradually shrinking, you turn and walk the opposite way until you’re past the premise of the arena and into the lot. You’re some steps ahead of him, which isn’t easy to do considering his frame, and it’s how he knows you aren’t happy. “Slow down. You don’t even know where I’m parked.”
“I’ll find it.”
Five minutes into the ride, some song by Miguel begins to waft through his Escalade.
One hand combing through his beard as his other steers the wheel,the ease in which you glossed over Mia’s presence when you saw her comes back to him.
The fact that you weren’t caught off guard makes him wonder whether or not you might've already been privy to the fact that she was there. You’d been backstage for hours, you might’ve even ran into her prior if you ventured outside the threshold of his dressing room like you had the freedom to while he was in the ring. It would explain why you seemed so upset with him when he returned, especially since your issue with traveling had been been laid to rest days prior.
He knows you like the back of his hand. If you believed for a second that he had a part to play in her attendance tonight on top of your irritation at the two of you’s forced proximity, you’d be livid right now. And you’re livid right now.
A couple months ago, he would’ve reveled in it. Shit, even if it wasn’t true he’d let you believe it if it meant you’d feel the fury he felt when you broke it off with him for reacting to finding out you’d been letting Lucian in on you and his’ relationship troubles.
It was unfair.
While you two were together, when you found out Mia had been trying to move in on him while you were in Italy, he let you express it openly, whatever that looked like even though he hadn’t had an active hand in anything she did. He didn’t punish you for feeling violated. He didn’t leave you when you felt violated.
The same cannot be said for you.
So when you called it quits, he went tit for tat.
But shit’s different now. You’re carrying his baby, and under no condition does he need you in any unnecessary distress right now. You’re as vulnerable and sensitive as you’ve ever been, and his concern for your wellbeing trumps all that other shit. Fuck all that.
He’s never internalized anything in his life as much as he did what you said to him once you found out you were pregnant.
You don’t think we’d be good parents?
Roman you’re barely a good man.
… So I’d be a bad father.
He didn’t give you much of a chance to elaborate. He left your apartment soon after you’d said it. He doesn’t know if you’d walk it back or double down, but it wouldn’t neutralize the bullet wound anyways.
Still, the fact that your faith in his ability to be a good father was in question shook his foundation like wobbly tectonic plates. If he let his projection talk, it’d say that all but confirms you hadn’t forgiven him for the car accident and he can’t even say he blames you for that because, in all honesty, he hasn’t either.
He looks over at you in the passenger seat. Underneath the hand mindlessly toying with the anti-nausea band wrapped around your wrist just below your sleeve, the crop of your corset jacket exposes the skin of your lower belly. You look barely bloated to the naked eye, partly due to the optical illusion of the vintage top’s deep swooping hemline.
He looks back at the landscape of Manhattan at night, “I didn’t know she was going to be here tonight.”
You roll your lips into your mouth, raise and then drop your eyebrows as you hum in bored acknowledgement. “Hm.”
“I’m serious, Pri. I had nothing to do with that. I didn’t even know. She shows up whenever she wants to these things.”
You find a sudden interest in the buildings that look like they’re moving in time lapse through the passenger side window and lie through your teeth, “I couldn’t care less about your little sorry ass puppy, Roman. Just take me to the hotel.”
You care. Immensely.
In fact, with your emotions all out of wack, you can’t remember a time you ever cared as much.
.
The water from the bath faucet pelts the pool of water beside you as your arms reach behind you to unclip your bra, sighing in relief when you taste that first second of liberty. Jesus Christ. You make a mental note to stop by Victoria Secret in the morning with Namina to pick up new ones.
In front of the well-lit bathroom mirror of the penthouse suite, you peel your panties down your legs and blow a raspberry as you look at your body. The weight gain is moderate but you see the difference most in your face. It’s fuller, lightly rounder. You tug the towel off the rack. Just as you wrap it around your body, the door opens.
You gasp sharply and hold the fabric to your chest, “oh my g— can’t you knock?!”
He pauses to eye the clutch you have on the towel, his expression unamused. “There isn’t a square inch under there I haven’t seen. Relax. Here.” He hands you what appears to be a dark blue bottle. This must be what he was getting from the trunk as you went on into the hotel without him.
“What’s this?” You read the bottle label. Dr. Teal’s melatonin infused lavender foam.
“Pour it in the water. The lady said it’s infused with melatonin and smells like that shit you’re always talking about. It’ll help with the insomnia.”
You blink at the spot he was standing at once the door closes.
He navigates his way into the living area and lounges on the sectional before leaning forward to pick up the cold Corona on the coffee table and taking a swig, his eyes on the cream curtains draping over the floor to ceiling windows.
Your one stipulation to coming on the road with him for these two shows, once you reluctantly agreed to after fighting tooth and nail, was the hotel arrangement. You didn’t care if it was already booked, if you didn’t have a bed of your own, you would be taking your ass back to Florida— no questions asked.
He believed you, albeit unfortunately, because you delivered it with that pointed finger like you always use when you’re serious and you’re done negotiating. Unfortunately, because he’s sure a lot of the tension you’re carrying could be fixed in one night if you’d let him. He’d have you walking on air. Shit, you’re already pregnant. You don’t need to be walking around that fucking agitated anyway. It’s not good for you.
When his phone chimes, the glass rim of the bottle at his wet lips, he tips the Corona back and brings the screen to eye level.
MIA. 11:07PM.
lol.
MIA. 11:07PM.
you’re weird as fuck. hope you know that.
ROMAN. 11:12PM.
What?
MIA. 11:14PM.
you know exactly what i’m talking about.
MIA. 11:14PM.
here I am taking the initiative to come out and see you because you’ve been acting off just to find out exactly why lol.
MIA. 11:15PM.
congrats tho. hope that baby fixes the issues you and her have like you think it will. ✌🏽
A tick of irritation mars the fold between his brows at the exchange, his beer meeting the ceramic side table with a light clink.
This thing he and her have going on was always meant to be light and airy. Low commitment. Apart from the tit for tat shit, it was meant to make you sick enough to realize that you don’t want it to be over and you still do want him. Meant to be short; something to pass the time by since nothing seemed to emphasize your absence quite like the silence when he was on his own.
Still, he’s never given Mia the impression that this is any more serious than it is, nor that you were ever out the picture, so the grilling feels out of left field.
ROMAN. 11:20PM.
Why are you acting like that?
ROMAN. 11:20PM.
We’re aren’t exclusive. We aren’t even together.
MIA. 11:27PM.
so I’m just supposed to turn my feelings off when I find out she’s pregnant?
MIA. 11:27PM.
I’m a human being.
MIA. 11:29PM.
you say you care about me but never act like it Roman. you SAW me witness that entire thing knowing how I feel and didn’t do nothing. didn't say anything. didn’t even text me afterward.
ROMAN. 11:32PM.
She’s carrying my child. I’m not going to put her in distress for your sake. I’m sorry if that’s what you wanted.
ROMAN. 11:35PM.
I do care about you, but I told you what this was from the jump. If you’re expecting any more than that, and I think that you are, that’s on you Mia.
ROMAN. 11:37PM.
It’s not your place to speak on our kid. You’re outta line. Don’t do it again.
MIA. 11:39PM.
that’s not my intent. i just feel so fucking disrespected.
ROMAN. 11:40PM.
I wasn’t tryna do that. I’m doing what I gotta do as a man. and that’s take care of my responsibility as a father.
MIA. 11:55PM.
how far along is she?
ROMAN. 11:58PM.
12 weeks.
The pattering of feet against hardwood floors captures his attention. As soon as he cranes his head around, you walk past the sofa with the towel tied around your frame and stop in front of a small Miu Miu bag full of travel-sized toiletries.
He puts his phone down on the side table and picks up the Corona to take a sip as he watches you silently dig through the bag for your cherry blossom body lotion, “tired?”
“It’s not gonna work that fast.” You mumble.
“Shit. For $400, it better.”
You stop digging and look up at him, “that was $400?”
He grins to himself and takes a swig, picking up the remote and pointing it at the television.
You cut your eyes at him and grab your lotion.
Going back to your bed, your eyes search for the red shorts you forgot to bring to the bathroom when you went to shower. Feeling too tired to properly search for it, you grab two handfuls of the duvet and jerk it up into the air once to locate it faster. Instead, you hear the thump of an object much too heavy to be an article of clothing hit the floor.
Leaning over the bed, you find Roman’s wallet on the floor. When it fell, it must've landed on its spine because it opened on impact. You bend at the hip, picking it up to close it and place it on the nightstand but right as you close it, something catches your eye.
Curious, you open it back up.
Tucked inside but peeking out of one of the corner folds of black leather is what looks like a white piece of paper that’s been rolled and flattened due to the tight pressure of the stacks of cards inside.
Your lips rolled into your mouth, you looks up at the open door of the bedroom. The sound of the television is distant. After internally debating it, you roll your eyes and pull at the piece of paper in increments as not to damage it. When has he ever questioned you being in his wallet?
You unfurl it and your world stops spinning on its axis when it reveals an sonogram. For a few seconds, all you hear is blood rushing through your ears. You’re only able to take another breath again when your eyes dart around the print in a panic.
PATIENT: RYDER, CAPRI.
DATE: 6/1/2021.
It’s yours.
You take a seat on the edge of the mattress with your palm pressed against your chest. Fuck. The more you look at the black and white image, the more it’s wear and tear make sense. It’s been in there for nearly three years.
Once the panic fizzles out and the hammering of your heart returns to a calm thrash, what you’re looking at starts to settle in.
June 1st, 2021 was the date of your very first sonogram from your first pregnancy. The tech was a nervous medical student in her second year of residency, supervised by Dr. Emerson. A revelation that Roman had ample issue with if the biceps of his arms crossed against his chest had anything to say about it. He received every one of your gasps at everything from the coolness of the gel to the new sensation as a blunder on behalf of the poor girl— his low, disgruntled interjection of ‘easy’ as she pointedly depressed the instrument deep onto your belly only intimidating her further.
You have no idea where he found this from.
You had gotten rid of everything in the nursery following the miscarriage. Two months after the car accident, when he left for work and it turned into his longest stint away from home ever, you purged it all. The toys, the clothes, the diapers, the sonograms. Everything.
Or so you thought.
You didn’t want to be reminded of it, and at the time; in the same way the brain represses certain memories of trauma to protect you, you thought pretending it never happened would be better.
A blank canvas is less violent than a black and blue one, after all.
Yet, when you look at it in a different light, perhaps this time around is your blank canvas.
Despite how upset you’ve been at yourself more than anyone for letting your heart lead you back to him, it’s not lost on you in this moment that you’ve never once entertained the alternatives Dr. Emerson discussed with you during your first appointment.
Deep down, you know it was never an option because you have what the past version of yourself mourned losing in the palm of your very hand. You’ve just been so preoccupied with resenting yourself that you’ve been tainting a perfectly healthy pregnancy all on your own. The realization makes your vision blurry.
You’ve been assuming the worst in every situation imaginable; that him wanting you with him here these past couple of days is just him using your pregnancy as an excuse to exercise that control he loves, that he invited her here tonight to get a rise out of you. If it was a negative thought, it had to be true.
But looking down at the weathered paper through glazed-over eyes, you can’t help but wonder if his intentions are truly as nefarious as you keep assuming.
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒𑁤 most, if not all, things about your relationships easily fall under the category of unorthodox. a unique love story, to say the least. and the ending....well, that remains to be seen.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𑁤 smut. unprotected sex. vaginal penetration. dirty talk. daddy kink. age gap couple (16 years). brief reference to physical illness. angst. themes, references, and discussions pertaining to mental health topics.
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒𑁤 five thousand and some change (5k+)
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𑁤 roman reigns x plussize!black!reader
𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𑁤 photos and gif's from pinterest and instagram. title graphic by me. dividers by @/cafekitsune
𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐎𑁤 ❝waking up in vegas❞ by katy perry // ❝it kills me❞ by melanie fiona
𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𑁤 laying in bed, listening to music, feeling like shit, this idea came to me, so i just opened the notes app and got to writing. most of it was written on my phone in one sitting, so do with that what you will. also, reader and roman are both irritating to me, but i also sympathize with both in different ways. idk. also, the thoughts and views of the characters, by no means, reflect that of the author. lastly, if you're in arisylum, ensure you read the full 7k version posted in the community.
The sound of the bed creaking and the headboard slamming repeatedly against the wall with each bounce of your body on his dick is the backdrop for your filthy sex talk. Your hands playing with your heavy breast, nipples twisted between your fingers. His own big hands can’t decide if they wanna stay on your thick hips, help keep you steady while riding, or if he wants to explore the rest of your body. Covering your hands with his own, the two of you playing with your titties together.
Your favorite though is when he drags one of them talented ass hands down the front of your slick, glowing body to play with your clit. And he knows that. You know that he knows that, hence that smug expression on his handsome ass face.
A face you can’t wait to sit on before the end of the night. Him only eating your pussy once today just isn’t enough. Not when God gifted this man with a tongue like that.
Blessed him with all the things, really. Including the beautiful, thick nine inch dick that’s got you feeling like you’re about to be split into two. A welcomed destruction, cause damn does it feel good.
“Look at you.” He slaps your hip, smoothing his palm down your backside. You bite your bottom lip as he wiggles his fingers between your ass cheeks, index finger probing your puckered hole. “You can’t get enough of this dick.”
“Mmmm.” You’re far too fucked out, leaning over just enough for you to smack your ass up and down his cock, slapping and smacking sounds increasing in volume from you essentially twerking on his dick. “S-s-so good, d-daddy.”
“Such a fucking greedy slut,” he groans, another slap to your ass before he’s back to steering you. Helping you bounce up and down, eyes transfixed on the swinging motion of your titties. “Can’t even fucking think straight when I’m buried in you like this, can you?”
No. Not at all. Not even a little. But as smug as this handsome bastard is, there still remains just enough of your wherewithal to not grant him the privilege of confirmation. You keep your lips pressed together, hand reaching for the headboard to steady you. Your thighs are burning like crazy, and you’ve had to flex your calves at least three times to smooth out the cramp that’s been dying to stilt you ever since he propped you on his dick.
You’re close. So so so close, but you’re also not ready. Not that it makes a difference. You already know he’s got at least one more position to put you in before he finally finds his release.
For a man in his forties, it’s almost embarrassing how well he can outdo you in the bedroom. This’ll be your third orgasm since he returned a few hours ago from his meeting with Paul and Nick.
He hasn’t come at least once. Not even when you were gagging on his dick, drool seeping out the corner of your swollen, pink lips. If you didn’t know for a fact that he was seconds away from shooting his load down your throat before he pushed you away, put you on all fours, and rammed that big dick in your wet, waiting pussy, you might have been offended. But you know better.
You know him.
“You close, ain’t you, baby?” He taunts, your closed eyes not preventing your from picturing the way them soft ass lips are either still lifted for that smug smile or a knowing smirk. Sometimes you really do hate how cocky he is. Unfortunately, unlike most men, he can back it up. “I can tell by the way she pulsing around me. Fluttering and shit.”
“Mmmm.” Once more, incoherent mumblings are the most you can offer him, the grind and drag of your soft body against his firm ass body granting your neglected clit the attention you’d been wanting. Waiting eagerly for him to address, and he knows it.
“You want me to play with that pussy, baby?” He purrs, and you swear there’s a fresh wave of your juice that gushes out your pussy, small streams seeping past the unforgiving grip your cunt has around his cock. Slippery and drenched, you’re leaking all over his chest, the combination of sweat and your conjoined juices creating an unsteady, unreliable surface. Hence your grip on the headboard and thus the way you’re relegated to grinding to get your fix. “Want daddy to eat it till you pushing me away talking about you can’t take it?”
Tale as old as time. Your husband is an eater through and through. Loves to give just as much as he loves to receive. It’s the best kind of “problem” to have as it pertains to a sex life. He never leaves you wanting more. Always satisfied, satiated, and stuffed.
Just like you are right now.
“Naw. You gotta earn that shit, slut.” His voice cuts through your fantasies, evoking a pout and whine just as he juts his chin in your direction. His eyes twinkle with mischief and devilry. “Keep riding.”
“How early you wanna fly in to Turin?”
His question stirs you from the much deserved and desired sleep that’s been calling your name ever since you finally tapped out after he came all over your back. He more or less had to hold you up in the shared shower and carry you to the bedroom with the freshly changed sheets he made sure to put on before you both climbed back into bed.
You make a sound, nails lightly brushing across his chest as his own lazily dance up and down the small of your back. He’s scrunched up your thin, lavender gown, leaving the sheets and duvet clinging to your nude, glowing body. But it’s the norm. He’s always been touchy feely like that, and it’s never bothered you.
You’re more or less the same.
“Doesn’t matter,” you finally answer. “The usual is fine.”
The usual being touching down via his private jet about a week before a show. It provides him time to get in match day headspace and you the time to squeeze in some exploring and swiping of his black American Express card. But more importantly, it allows adequate opportunity for you two to just spend time together. As proud as you are of him for his big win at Mania and ascension back to the top of the mountain, him being home more was something you’d gotten used to.
Life is just easier when he’s around.
Until it’s not.
“Okay,” he says. You wait for him to follow up with something. Most likely a reminder that the boys will fly in with ya'll or even whatever tentative agenda and schedule he's been given at this time. But he remains quiet and just continues to caress your back, embracing the post coital relaxation and silence.
It’s the perfect opportunity to grant your exhausted body the recharge it desperately needs. Especially given your busy day tomorrow. Hop on the jet to fly back home in the morning. Filming, editing, and posting of the material you recorded while accompanying him to this Raw all scheduled to be done before the clock hits midnight.
It just makes sense to close your eyes and allow yourself to drift off to sleep. The smart thing, perhaps.
But no one ever said you were smart.
“You know…..” You inch closer, nestling your head against his inked chest. It’s a somewhat subconscious thing what with the way you angle your mouth close to his rib cage. Speech slightly murmured, partially obscuring the clarity and muffling the volume. “Naomi brought over David the other day.” For your own sanity and perhaps to allot you some faux sense of security, you choose to ignore the way his body tenses under yours. “He’s so adorable. Looks more and more like—“
“Y/N.” A single word, and the roles are precipitously reversed. You’re the one growing quiet, and he’s the one who fills that silence. “Don’t.”
You swallow, peering up at him. “Don’t what?”
His jaw ticks, the glow of the moon peering through the opposite window highlighting the shadows of his defined face. His grays splattered throughout a sea of otherwise onyx more or less the same in the dim lighting. “Don’t start this shit again.”
“How am I starting something?” You challenge. A part of you screaming to let it go, to let it be as it is, but another part of you, the part that you’ve never been able to truly silence, is begging to be unleashed. The protector protecting from dangers real and imagined “I’m literally just talking to you.”
Unfortunately for you, your husband has never been one to back down. To not accept and meet a challenge with the same energy brought you the table. He's a mirror of yourself in many ways. “No, you’re trying to have that conversation again, and I’m not in the mood to argue with you.”
“Argue over what?” You suck your teeth, sitting up and looking down at him. Frustration ticks when he diverts his gaze and runs his hand over his face. “Roman.”
His answer is to make the same sound as he sits up and turns away. You also sit all the way up, thin sleeve of your gown drooping over your exposed shoulder. You study the defined line of his back, starting to visually trace the sharp outlines of the dark ink. “How many times do gotta do this shit, Y/N?” He looks over his shoulder but not directly at you, and for some reason, that almost hurts more than the reaction, deep down, you knew you were going to get. “Same song and dance every fucking time.” Something tightens in your stomach when he does finally meet your eyes, however, his own reflect nothing but irritation and exasperation. “I said no, and that’s final.”
Once more, an opening is created. An escape and jump off a mountain that only leads to an increasingly difficult uphill battle. The wise choice, the best choice, is to retreat. Leave it be.
If only your heart wasn't so much louder than your head.
Eyes narrowed, the timbre of your voice carries with it ammunition ready and waiting to be unleashed. “Yeah, you did say no, but not before you said 'yes,' and then ‘no’ before that and then another ‘yes' sprinkled somewhere in between.” You throw your hands up, the frustration that swims between the two of you about what and what on both ends. “You can’t make up your mind.”
It’s a fact he can try to deny all he wants, but it doesn’t make it any less true. From the moment you two met two years ago, at least, the parts that you can remember, it’s been nothing but back and forth. One minute he’s blowing your back out, hands locked behind you, whispering nasty words and broken promises.
“You gon’ give me a baby, princess? Hmm. A little girl for me to spoil just like I spoil her mama.”
The next, it’s nothing but a slightly different scene than the one transpiring now. Him pacing across the bedroom, hand on his hips, upper cheeks flushed from vexation with a topic that’s been revisited, reviewed, and recycled ten times over now.
“I don’t know why you keep bringing this shit up, Y/N. We’re not having any fucking kids together. Ever.”
He swings from one end to the pendulum to the other. Getting your hopes up only to dash em’ back down with all of the cruelty that, one could argue, got him to where he is today, career wise.
It’s also, however, what cost him everything, too.
“Well, my mind is made up now, and the answer is the same it’s been the last three goddamn times you brought this shit up.” He pierces your internal monologue with another reiteration of what makes your shoulders drop and scowl shift into a frown. “No.”
It could be left at that, and maybe it should be, but once the flood gates are opened, that’s it.
There’s no turning back.
You move to sit on your knees, his expression, just like his current stance, unchanged and undeterred.
“Do you know how unfair you’re being?” You shake your head, hating how a newfound emotion is trying to creep its way into your voice. This isn’t the time for that. “All this back and forth. It’s mind games. You’re playing mind games with me, Roman, and it’s not fair.”
It’s not fair how he’ll get your hopes up only to crush them with the stomp of his metaphorical boot, throwing out excuse after excuse, reason after reason.
“We need to work on us before we even think about that, Y/N.”
“Let’s see what this year looks like for me work wise, and then we can revisit it.”
“I just want you to focus on you first. Before anything else.”
Rejection cloaked as kindness. It’s like for every step you take in the right direction, he keeps moving the goalpost. And maybe if he would stick with a stance, whatever that might be, it would be easier for you to “let it go.”
At least, that’s what you like to believe.
“I’m not playing any games with you, Y/N,” he sighs, mirroring your actions by also shaking his head. “You just refuse to accept the truth and come to terms with reality.” Words that sting, but the impact is slightly lessened by the visible decrease of frustration in his deep voice. Forbearance making a surprising appearance. “And the reality is that I don’t want any more kids. I'm about to be 41. My boys are grown. I’ve raised them. I’m not trying to start over again. I’m too old for that shit.”
There’s so much for you to dissect in that conglomerate of sentences. He’s not wrong about a couple things. Josiah and Jeremiah are grown. 21 going on 22, in their senior year of college, each with aspirations—and likelihood—to go pro in their respective sports. They’re fine young men, and Roman and his ex-wife, Julia, should be proud. You know they are. It’s why, despite them still having a rocky relationship since their divorce almost four years back, when it comes to their twins, they always set aside personal feelings and do what needs to be done for their kids.
Roman is a good father. A great one. And if he managed to do that as a kid having a kid, still maintaining a close bond with his sons even now, constant communication between the three of them on the daily, you have no doubt it’d be the same for your child.
And therein is where his words, fact with opinion, start to pierce. At, basically, 41, you can partially understand why he’s not exactly thrilled about the idea of having another child. But not even a month ago he was asking you how you’d feel if it was a boy instead of a girl.
It being the baby he’s now saying he doesn’t want.
Again, the fucking back and forth.
Yet there’s one word in all of his soliloquy that you latched onto.
My
“Exactly. You’ve already had them, but I haven’t.” You point to yourself, feeling that damn emotion continuing to expand, making its way to the surface. Refusing to be denied any longer. “I’m 25, Roman. I'll be 26 later this year. It’s normal for me to want children at this point in my life. It’s the perfect time for me to have kids.”
Your own kids. Despite only being a few years older than his sons, you hold a close relationship with them. As close as a step-mother can get. They see you more as a peer than anything, and after making amends with the objectively strange ass way you and Roman got together, they allowed the walls to collapse and reservations to be set aside. But again, the dynamic with them is more friends than anything. They aren’t kids, they don’t feel like kids, and they’ll never be your kids.
Hence why you want your own child.
A child with Roman.
But your emotions making an appearance through the watering of your eyes and cracking of your voice seem to do little to faze the man before you. The only indication of disturbance being whatever flashes in his warm eyes before his quiet, simple response. “Then you should have thought about that when you agreed to stay married to me.”
His words circulate throughout your head even after he leaves. Walks out of the room, most likely decompressing in the second bedroom of the hotel suite. Allowing both him and yourself time to process before the argument could reach a level that resulted in him leaving and you spiraling.
It wouldn’t be the first time.
The last two years of your life have been such a whirlwind. Something most wouldn’t believe if you told them because the story of you and Roman sounds like something out of a Reddit thread or TikTok story time. The type where you watch with a degree of skepticism because some of the shit just sounds too outlandish. And your meeting of your now husband is nothing short of outlandish.
You met the night after WrestleMania 40. Vegas. The Chandelier.
An hour and several drinks after said meeting, you two were hitting the slot machines and wandering around the casino, talking, sharing, and connecting without a care in the world.
Two hours and even more drinks later, he had you bent over the balcony of his suite, screaming and calling on every deity known to man.
And then some.
12 hours later, you woke up in bed, naked, his soft snores in your ear, and a rock on your left hand.
You were married.
Needless to say, the fallout from that was….something.
Wild as hell, too, but also….it tracked.
He was depressed from not only the loss of his title, the end of his legendary 1,316 title reign, but also everything that came with it. Old emotions and never fully healed wounds poked and probed with and by painful reminders of betrayal.
And you were three days deep into a manic episode, one that would only end a week and a half later, when the bulk of the damage was already done.
Two storms on a collision course for disaster.
Neither really willing and wanting to do anything to find a life vest, a raft, a way to evacuate.
He was too caught up in his head to seek out the appropriate parties about an annulment, and you, again, being manic, were too deep into your episode to see how absolutely insane all of it was. You were just excited to be married, to a rich ass, fine ass, older ass man who you later learned to be Roman fucking Reigns.
Separation wasn’t anywhere on your agenda. No, according to the journaling you did and have done for a number of years now when in a manic or depressive state, you were already planning the names of your kids. From the very beginning, you knew you wanted kids with him.
It’s that reminder, however, that triggers the thought for you. The one that remains even an hour later when he returns to the room to find you in bed, in a fetal position near the edge, blankets pulled up to your chin.
Silent tears streaming down your face.
It’s not until the bed groans and his coarse fingertips brush against your cheeks that you break the silence you’d rested in since his departure.
“I haven’t had an episode in almost a year,” you whisper, throat dry and stinging. A similar sensation felt near the corner of your eyes. Telltales of the tears being in a consistent, heavy flow for the past hour. You swallow, licking your suddenly chapped lips and manage to shift your eyes to look up at him. “I’m consistent with my meds. I haven’t missed a day in God knows how long.”
His lips press together, his fingers moving to stroke the top of your head. “Y/N….”
“I’ve done so well in therapy that I only have to go once a month now,” you continue, finding the strength to sit up. Roman angles his body so that he’s fully facing you as you cross your legs under the thin covers. “I—I’m better now.”
Perhaps better than you’ve been in a very very long time. Because even before your diagnosis of Bipolar 1 at the age of eighteen, your life was always a chaotic storm. Because before it was you, it was your mom. Wild, erratic behavior that, as a kid, you didn’t understand. Your mom was different. Moody. Unique, as your dad once described her. She could be hot one minute, and cold the next. But she was your mom, and you loved her to pieces. So did your dad. Hence the way he stood by and supported her up until her last day on this earth.
An intentional last day.
Your mom died by suicide a week after your thirteenth birthday.
That was when your own symptoms started to manifest. You’d later find out that your doctor, and even your dad, strongly suspected bipolar. That they knew that was what you had by your 17th birthday. They just had to wait until you were 18 to formally diagnose you.
Before and after, it’s been up and down. A few hospital stays sprinkled in over the years. Discussions, at one point, taking place between your dad and stepmom, Sherry, regarding a conservatorship. Most of your behavior, however, was simply due to being treatment resistant. You’d go to therapy for a little while and then disappear. Take your meds as prescribed for a few weeks before stopping cold turkey.
It wasn’t your diagnosis that was ruining your life. It was the person in the mirror.
That behavior continued even after meeting and marrying Roman. The first stretch of your marriage was, in no uncertain terms, a hot fucking mess.
Arguments. Mudslinging back and forth. Cheating. Threats. On both sides. But for every bad thing in the relationship, something good always followed. A heartfelt conversation. A kind gesture. A gentle touch. A vow and oath of love and commitment. Vehement defending of one another, whether it be him defending you to his family, especially his ex-wife. Or you defending him to your parents who thought you’d experienced some sort of psychotic break by marrying a man over ten years your senior. It didn’t matter though. For as toxic as the shit was, it was equally as healing.
Felt that way, at least.
Roman especially began to thaw out and extend a newfound sense of understanding and patience when you finally disclosed your diagnosis. He was confused, didn’t understand everything but said he would try— on one condition.
That you’d get help.
Real help.
Because he’d grown exhausted at having his team work overtime to ensure stories detailing and depicting your capricious behavior during manic episodes remain sealed. Snapped photos that disappeared. Social media posts scrubbed. Both for the sake of his image and yours. A social media influencer with over 1 million followers—5 million now—you were partially known for your quirky behavior that sometimes helped conceal the episodes. But it was only a matter of time before the comments of entertainment turned into expressions of concern.
He protected you from that.
He’s protected you from a lot.
Including yourself.
Ensured that he assembled the best treatment team—therapist, psychiatrist, and primary— that his pockets could afford. And you’d come to find out that his pockets ran deep.
So much so that your turbulent early to mid twenties are so far behind in your rearview mirror that the view is almost entirely distorted.
The first six months of your marriage was a hot dysfunctional mess. The second six months carried healing and repairing. Now in the second year, you feel as if you’re in the best place mentally that you’ve ever been in your entire life. And your marriage isn’t too far behind that. You and Roman, in your opinion, are in such a good, healthy space now.
But maybe….maybe he doesn’t feel the same.
“I can do this, Roman.” You reach for his forearm, closing your eyes when he palms your face. His touch has always been so calming. “I can be a mother.”
You know you can. You just….you need the chance to show him.
“Y/N…” he murmurs. You open your mouth to see him frowning, the lines in his forehead more pronounced as his thick brows furrow together. “I know how bad you want this. I do, but—”
Your chest tightens for the umpteenth time that night. “But?”
He sighs, thumb brushing over your cheek. “I don’t know if you’ve thought about how all of this is actually going to work.”
For some reason, despite the gentle undertone in his voice, his words do little to soothe you. If anything, they’re only spiking your anxiety and deepening your grief. “What do you mean?”
His loud sigh precedes what you already have a nagging suspicion isn’t going to help an already contentious situation. “Having a kid….it’s not easy.”
“I know that, Roman.”
You place your hand over his as he continues to palm your face. “You’ve made such good progress over the past two years—”
“But?” You press once more. He’s dancing around the subject, and it’s doing nothing to help your trepidation and everything to worsen it.
His jaw shifts. The three second pause before he answers feels like three fucking hours. “Would you still be able to take your meds while pregnant?”
You swallow. It’s an understandable question, one that, for all the contemplating and dreaming you’ve done regarding pregnancy, you hadn’t considered. It seems like most medications carry with them the generic, default warning regarding risks for pregnant women. Granted, you’re certainly not the first woman with a mental health disorder that requires medication to keep your symptoms managed who wants to become a mother. Wants to conceive. So surely there must be some sort of remedy.
“I—I don’t know,” you answer, honestly. “But I’m sure I can just take something different while—”
He shakes his head. “After how long it took for them to find a regimen that works for you?” Another valid question that makes you inwardly wince. “And didn’t you tell me Bipolar is genetic? Or hereditary or something?”
As you begin to pick at the sheet covering your body, his latest inquiry makes your eyes lift to his. Where….where is he going with this?
You grow quiet. “Yes.”
Roman licks his lips, the pauses between his words indicative of him working hard to carefully articulate his thoughts. “Your mom had it. You have it….what happens if our kid has it too?”
And there it is.
You immediately jerk away from him, forcing his hand to drop. Once soothing, his touch suddenly feels like a thousand needles prickling into your skin.
Just like his question has pricked into your heart.
A stabbing, more of a fitting comparison, with the largest, metaphorical kitchen knife that he could locate.
“Are you….” You shake your head, still trying to mull over what he just asked you. “Are you saying that I shouldn’t have a kid because he or she might also have Bipolar?” His eyes shut, and you yank your hand back when he attempts to reach for you. “Like it’s a fucking death sentence?”
“Y/N—”
But you’re not trying or wanting to hear it. You kick the blankets away, also kicking him in the process, and crawl across the mattress. Your feet slam into the ground as you start to march out of the room, Roman right behind you.
“Baby, that’s not what I’m saying—”
“Well, it sure fucking sounds like it,” you snap, turning around simply to glare at him before continuing to walk with no specific direction in mind. You just need distance. Distance he refuses to grant. As soon as your feet shift from carpet to the cool wooden floor and you harshly flip the switch to light up the kitchen, you turn to him once more. “I didn’t ask to be born with this, Roman. Okay? It’s not something I fucking had control over.”
He’s standing near the entrance, allowing you to move over to the refrigerator as you open it with, again, no clear goal in mind. “I understand that, Y/N.”
“Do you?” You challenge, slamming the door shut before once more closing that distance you want but can’t seem to enforce. “Tell me something. How would you feel if someone told you that you shouldn’t have kids because of your CML?”
It’s a low blow. You know it. Can see it in the way he blinks, lips slightly parting before his jaw tightens.
“That’s different,” he says, lowly.
You cross your arms. “Is it?”
“Yes.” His gaze darkens, voice tightening. “Because CML isn’t hereditary, and if it was, I would fucking agree with them because to bring a child into this world knowing they have an increased chance of developing cancer is fucking cruel and selfish.”
Once more, you can’t deny that he makes a valid point. But you also can’t deny the way that point fucking hurts. The pang and throb in your chest increasing by the second.
“And that’s what you think of me, isn’t it?” You whisper. “That—that I’m being selfish and that I’m—that I’m cruel—”
“No.” His heavy footsteps follow the way he pulls you into his arms, holding you close and kissing the top of your head. “That’s not what I think at all. What you have and what I have are two completely different things. I was just trying….” He trails off, and you find yourself clutching the sides of his sweats and closing your eyes. “Fuck, you know I’m not good with this shit.”
And he isn’t, but it’s never stopped him from trying with you, and that’s more you can say for your ex’s. For most men perhaps.
But Roman isn’t most men.
Not in the slightest.
He cups your face with both hands, words and expression the softest you’ve seen all night. “Look, it’s late. Why don’t we talk about this tomorrow mornin?” He then suggests, and it feels genuine vs an attempt to push off the inevitable. “Or when we get back home?”
Enough words have been exchanged for this evening, and you’ve done enough therapy over the years and gained enough introspection to recognize that trying to continue this conversation when your emotions are all over the place won’t do anybody any good. Roman is a calm, but he can also be the storm, too.
You don’t wanna test it.
Nodding against his chest, he cradles the back of your head, kissing your scalp with a murmured, “I love you.”
You echo the sentiment, remaining quiet as he carries you into the bedroom and gently places you on the bed before he climbs in, pulling you close. But while he eventually drifts off to sleep, hand still on your back from when he was rubbing small, soothing circles, you lay on his chest, mind a million and one places.
Perhaps it’s your inner desire that’s fueling it, but deep down, you truly do believe that Roman wants children with you. Even if just one. The same way his eyes light up with something akin to excitement and pride when he’s talking about or interacting with the boys is the same light you see when he makes comments about your future children.
That has to mean something.
As he more or less indicated tonight, his uncertainty regarding your child most likely inheriting Bipolar from you is what has him concerned. It’s one of perhaps other smaller, similar concerns. The barrier to happiness he can't seem to break through.
But.
But in the event that you’re wrong, that he truly doesn’t want anymore kids. That he won’t have anymore kids….what does that mean for you?
Warnings: Mature content 18+, profanity, heavy smut, unprotected sex, oral (fem receiving), lots of praise, Roman being an absolute slut for you.
Summary: It was supposed to be a wholesome movie night, but roman can’t keep his dick in his pants that long.
WC:1.5k
A/N at the end!💕
The two of you were laying down on the couch, watching your favorite movie for the 100th time this month. You guys were cuddled up in the spoon position, your back side was on roman so that you could see the tv, and he was behind you with one of his arms wrapped around your waist and the other tucked under you, and conveniently for him right where your breasts were.
He’s never verbalized this but he loves your titts, everything about them is so addicting—how big they are, how they bounce when you do just about anything, when they tease him whenever they spill out of certain clothing you were, and especially when he sees your nipples harden whenever the two of you have sex. He can't get enough of them.
He can’t get enough of you.
Before the movie even turned on, he was already turned on and you hadn’t even done anything. Just by him being close to you, smelling that vanilla and jasmine body wash you love so much, him feeling on your soft and plush stomach he loves to touch on(and push down on while his fucking you), and your voluptuous back side being right on his dick, which was hardening with every passing second. It didn’t help that you were wearing moomoo you knew he loved so much.
He honestly doesn’t give a fuck about the movie anymore.
He actually hates this movie, but he loves you more than anything though so he doesn’t care how many times he has to watch it if it means he gets to be close to you. Right now though, all he could think about was pulling that damn moomoo off of you and fucking your sexy ass right on the couch. He needed to hear those sweet moans you make whenever he hits your sweet spot, to caress and suck on those big, brown areolas, and bend you over so he could see your ass recoil as he fucks you through the couch.
You were very unaware of how primal you were making this man feel because you were zeroed-in on the movie, however, you quickly became aware when you accidentally scooted your ass back on him to adjust your position.You almost instantly felt his girth on your ass right after.
“I-I’m sorry baby…” you whispered nervously, now fully realizing what you’ve just started.
“It’s fine,” his voice was low and husky, causing your core to tighten, and your pussy to become slick. “Just watch the movie sweetheart, it’s about to get good.” He doesn’t even know what’s going on.
You nodded your head as you tried to redirect your attention back onto the TV, It was impossible now, though. Roman's hold on you got tighter, so tight that the veins on his hands and forearm started to become more visible. He started planting kisses on the side of your head, your burning cheek, and then he started to concentrate his warm, full lips on your ear. He hovered his breath over it, planting light kisses on it because, and whispering sweet nothings into it, small I love you’s, you’re so beautiful’s—and more audibly saying “You know what you’re doing, don’t you, pretty girl?” His hands started to travel down the side of your thigh and stopped at the end of your night gown. “You wearin’ my favorite clothes,” he started kissing on that sensitive spot on your neck. “And you try scooting that ass back on me,” his hand slowly pulled the end of that damned moomoo up. “And you think im not gon do nothin’?” he starts to lick and suck on that sensitive part on your neck.
As he’s talking to you, or teasing you rather, you’re letting out those sweet, yet pathetic whimpers he loves so much. “Ro, I didn’t-”
“Oh, you meant it, baby,” He growls and grips on your ass and you let out a breathy moan. “You meant that shit. Now be a good girl and watch that movie, tell me what’s going on.” One of his hands started to tease your big, plump, pussy.
“Ohh my god!” you gasped and immediately rolled your hips against his fingers for more friction, he noticed this and slowly circled your bundle of nerves. “There she is..” His voice was so provocative now it drove you insane. You didn’t even care about this damn movie anymore.
“Please don’t stop daddy, mmhh” you breathed out as he was now thrusting his fingers inside your tight hole and rubbing your clit with his thumb.
“I’ll never stop, so long as you pay attention to that tv. I know you can do it sweetheart” He encouraged you while putting you on your back so that he could snake his way down to your soaking pussy. “Go on and tell me, I’m listening” he teased as he planted small kisses on your stomach and spread your thick thighs apart, putting them over his shoulders and locking his arms around them, god you loved the way his muscles flexed when he did this.
“Th-ohhh fuck.. They’re trying to come up with a p-plan” you stutter, trying your best not to pay attention to Roman’s constant teasing.
“Oh yeah? What else baby?” He slid his tongue across your entire pussy, causing you to shiver with pleasure.
“And they-they’re waiting for the perfect-” you were cut off by the feeling of roman completely devouring you. His skillful tongue flicking your clit and slurping up your juices like it was his last meal.
“Daddy please, I'm gonna come!!” you begged as you put your hand on his head, gripping onto his hair as if it would help anchor you.
“Go on and come for me, baby. Let me taste that shit” He said slowly, then immediately continued to eat your sweet pussy.
You started to shake uncontrollably from all the pleasure, clenching your thighs around roman’s head and moaning his name so loud that you’re sure everyone in the neighborhood can hear you, and you finish all over yourself and roman,who can’t even contain himself anymore. The pressure he feels from your thighs mixed with your voice is driving him clinically insane. He licks you clean, groaning because you taste so damn good.
“I’m not done with you yet.”
You whimpered pathetically since you could no longer form coherent sentences. Roman leaned over you, held onto the tip of your chin, and gave you a deep kiss. “You did so good for me, I know you got another one in you. Don’t you baby? He cooed and gave you another kiss. You weakly nodded at his question. “Use your words, sweetheart.” he commanded.
“I-I do..” your voice was so shaky and he fucking loved it. He didn't even say anything else after you replied, he just took his sweatpants off, revealing his erection that was already dripping with come.
He took a second to soak you in admiring your now naked body sprawled out on the couch. “You’re so beautiful, baby.” He whispered, stroking his dick a couple of times before lining himself up inching himself inside of you, when he hears your intoxicating moans, he wastes no time sliding all his length inside you with one smooth stroke. He pulled out and slammed back in, hitting your sensitive spot that caused your back to arch off the couch and your face to contort in a way full of burning pleasure.
“Oouu, yes daddy, oh my god..” you whined and dug your nails into his tattooed arm.
His breath hitched upon feeling your sharp nails, but he didn’t mind one bit. He continued to fuck you hard and deep, grunting softly with each stroke.
“I love you so much, love this tight fuckin’ pussy, these fucking titties..” he said gruffly, squeezing onto one of your now sensitive breasts, and his pace started to pick up—getting faster, and somehow deeper.
“I-I’m gonna come, daddy. Please let me come” you pleaded weakly. Roman looked at you with those dark, lustful eyes of his—drinking up your perfect body under his. He then leaned down and gave you a passionate kiss before putting his lips to your ear and encouraging you to come for him, to let him see and feel how much you love him. And that you did—you squeezed yoru eyes shut and your body jerked and shivered under his as you released all over yourself, roman and the couch. Roman came undone at the same time, still fucking you through your orgasm at the same time.
“There you go, my beautiful girl, look at all that love you gave me” he alluded to the mess you and him made on that couch. He wrapped you into his arms, and gave you small kisses all over your face.
You wrapped yourself around roman, not even caring that the movie had ended a long time ago. The two of you just laid on the couch for the rest of the night in a comfortable silence. So much for having a simple movie night.
A/N💕: Hello hello you filthy little freaks😩, I hope yall enjoyed this shit. this was another one of those fuck it just post it kind of fics. I tried to do somethings differently, like kind of explore and practice on my smut like writing or whatever, let me know how yall liked it or didn't like it im very open to CONSTRUCTIVE criticism.
I also came up with this shit while I was on the couch watching game of thrones, thought I should add that for some reason.
anyways, thanks for reading, please interact with this!! I love to see what you guys think.
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 | 𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈| 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲, 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟, 𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭, 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐭𝐨𝐱𝐢𝐜 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩𝐬.
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 𝟓.𝟗𝐤
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐧𝐝.
𝑀𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡
𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞| you guys talked me into it! In honor of me taking my graduation pics tmw, here's pt II early!
𝙸𝚏 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚒𝚗'𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚘'𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚎?
𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟗, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓
Waiting for his driver to return to the bus was usually never this agonizing, however in that moment he’s subject to an indescribable amount of torture. From where he kneeled on the cushions of the leather sofa, he can hear her voice directly outside the window. Though he can't make out what's being said he would recognize that laugh anywhere.
Ear pressed to the window he imagines her face, eyes crinkling— lips pulled high in delight. He hadn’t seen her since that night in Paris— even forbade the twins from telling him anything about her. Though he often wondered if she ever asked about him.
It's not like he would’ve had time to see her anyway. Over the last two and a half months he’d spent a collective two weeks at his place of employment, the rest of the time spent trying to keep his promise to her.
After scheduling four different appointments with four different providers and no showing each one, he’d finally worked up the nerve to join his fifth therapy session.
A plump woman named Margo with a no nonsense attitude awaited him. In a way, she reminded him of Jireh. He would never tell her, but it's why he keeps showing up. It’s also the same reason he almost quit mid session when she informed him that they could not only speak about Jireh. Firmly reminding him that therapy starts at the root of the problem. Whatever the fuck that meant.
Too caught up in trying to eavesdrop on the conversation outside, he missed the opening of the bus door and almost lost his balance whipping around after hearing the clearing of a throat. His driver Nash, stood at the front of the bus, hands on his hips and an eyebrow raised into his hairline.
“Whatcha up to?” he questions with a laugh. Caught in the act, he doesn't even pretend to have an excuse.
“Who alls’ out there, might go and say bye to the twins if they’re still around.”
“Oh, yeah they’re out there.” he waves a hand in the direction of the door before turning toward his area of the bus. His statement lacks some key details and Roman scratches at his beard in low level irritation.
“Just them?” he goaded, attempting to pull him back into an otherwise finished conversation.
“nah them and a few others.” he’s still puttering around preparing his area for the long drive ahead of them.
“anybod—”
“What do you really wanna ask me son?” After almost a decade of navigating him from place to place, Nash knew Roman like the back of his hand. "Is it anything to do with the pretty lady that owns these here pink slippers you refuse to get rid of?”
Both heads turn toward the direction of said slippers, tucked neatly into the corner of the faux foyer. Roman always fussed at Jireh for wearing them due to how much they shed. He’d always find little pink fibers stuck to the all black fabric that was ninety percent of his outfits. Like many other items she’d left behind, they’d never left their spots even though their owner ceased to return.
“You saw her?”
“I did.”
“and?”
“and what?”
“I’m being serious.”
the older man gives a full belly laugh. “If you was so serious you would go out there and say somethin to her.” They stand like a mirror, arms crossed over their chests waiting for the other to give in.
“Sit down son, let's talk.” He doesn’t wait for Roman to comply before waltzing over to the booth in the compact makeshift kitchen area. Once settled, he inclines his head to the other side, silently calling for him to have a seat.
“Now usually I stay out your business but I'll admit you've got me confused. I been driving you round on this bus for eight years, just you, then suddenly just you became two and now we’re back to square one,” seeing no attempts at interjection he pushes on.
“You been moping around since then, not even showing up to work, then I get in here and find you peeking out the blinds like a pervert—”
“I wasn’t—”
“Then what were ya doing?”
“I’m not a pervert.”
“Yeah and I’m not turning 65 this year” he laughs.
“Nash I’m not a pervert I was just—”
“Why don’t you just go an talk to her?” He has no response to that because he has no real reason not to. That night in Paris, they laid on that sofa until the sun came up. It was she that had the courage to finally detangle herself from him and go— as always.
Planted a lingering kiss on his forehead and left him there alone. No more tears. No yelling, she didn't tell him that she hated him. Not even a smack to the face for wasting her time. Secretly he wished that she would call his bluff.
Anytime his phone rang he scrambled to answer only to be disappointed when it wasn’t her face gracing his screen. Even when he was begging her to stop sending the erotic messages, he would frequently scroll back through them. Refamiliarizing himself with the scope of her, from the dip of her cupids bow down to the creases at the back of her thighs. If he was a better man he would delete them until he made amends.
“It's complicated.”
“…Complicated?”
“…Yeah”
“Mhmm, let me tell ya a story,” leaning back in his seat, he lets out a large puff of air before continuing on “When I was growing up my parents were sacks of shit,” Roman lets out an affirmative snort. “So I jumped around from place to place looking for something—or someone, to dive head first into if ya know what I mean.”
“Nash—come on man I'm being serious—”
“So am I! Let me finish, I'll get to the point eventually," waiting for the young man to lower his hackles he continues on. “anyway I met this girl ina bar down town New Orleans. Cute lil thing with these pretty brown eyes I used to always say she had bug eyes but in a cute way you know—”
“why are you—”
“Just listen! I decided I liked her cute lil bug eyes so much that I wanted to keep seeing em. Then one day big bug eyes turned into lil ones staring up at me. Then another pair and then two more after that. Times got hard after the last one was born. Me and her, fussin and fighting, bills needin to be paid n’ all that. Biggest thing was, she wanted to finally get married. So I picked up trucking. It was good money, they had everything they wanted and I got peace of mind, just me, myself and the highway. I spent more time on that road than I did my own home. Till one day I came back. House empty—kids gone. Only thing there was a note. Know what it said?”
“What?”
“Told me to let her know when I was done runnin, she’d be waitin for me.”
“And?”
“She finally got that wedding she wanted, just not with me. Could only see my babies every couple of weeks on a court order. Served me right I guess, had nothing better to do so I gave up trucking and started driving around rich lil assholes like you. When you're doing so much driving and driving and driving you get a lotta time to think and the more I thunk the more I realized just how bad I screwed it all up. Things are better than ever now. Hell, since you barely come to work I feel like I get to see my kids more than I ever have before. They're older, having babies of their own. I wasn’t the best dad to em. Thought if I gave em all the gifts and toys they wanted, that would be enough. My oldest went to school for that psycho shit, keeps telling me I got childhood trauma and it ain’t my fault. Whatever the hell that means. I make sure I try real hard for the grandkids now. Even though I gotta play co- grandpa with my ladies husband, I tell the kids to call me popop. I'm not sharing a name with that suma bitch—that motherfucker. Every time I see em I wanna knock his head off—you know—”
“Nash.” he interrupts the upcoming rambling. “Why are you telling me this?” The older man lets out a deep sigh.
“You know you gotta head harder than a horse's ass, too many hits with them chairs they’ll do sum to ya I tell ya.” He rolls his eyes, shaking his head in disappointment. “At some point you gotta shut up and let people love on ya. All that shit that happened in the past is the past. Work through it however you need but you keep running and you’ll look up and see that you ran her right into the arms of someone else—hell you already have. The twins told me about that Justin boy or whoever. wooooo boy does he have a bone to pick with yo—”
“Alright that's enough. Let's get outta here.” quickly rising from his seat signaling the end of the conversation. He’d rather not hear about Jordan and how if he had his way, Roman would be beaten to a pulp every week on live television. Heading to the back of the bus he stops in his tracks bowing his head.
“Nash?” he spins around to face the man. “What do you think I should do…about Jireh”
“Well for starters, stop talking back to your therapist, I’ve heard you on the phone back there an—” he stops short at the disgruntled look on the man's face.
“Ok sorry. Look. This is what I would do to win my woman back. I've actually been wanting to test this out for a few years but my daughter thinks it would mess up the family dynamic or some shit. I keep telling her to hell with all that but—” again noticing him losing patience he course corrects. “…this is what I would do.”
𝐉𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝟑𝟏, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟔
Moving into a new home while traveling the world on a weekly basis was no easy feat but admittedly it was easier than waking up everyday being haunted by the ghost of a lover and she had to finally admit that her home was a graveyard of what could have been.
Choosing not to repeat past mistakes and drag another innocent soul into the disorienting mess that was her life, the first few weeks of isolation were the hardest.
Though they’d been broken up for some months before—and several times prior to that. This time was different. No passive aggressive remarks. No meetings for closure that ended in the colliding of feverish skin and reconciliation.
There were no club run ins. No stealthy encounters in unlit parking lots. No late night phone calls. No scandalous trading of explicit images and breathy voice memos. There was only silence. Lengthy and maddening silence that ate at her chest as the days went by.
Time had passed and her tears may have dried but the thoughts of him still lingered. Even after packing all of his things into boxes and tucking them away it wasn’t enough. Constantly wondering why she couldn’t escape the thought of him, she seriously considered checking herself in for a mental evaluation at one point.
It started with the little things. Still sleeping on the left side of the bed. Still keeping her shoes tucked neatly onto the top racks because there were usually a few of his larger pairs on the bottom.
Her closet and dresser drawers having vacant space that even reckless shopping sprees couldn’t fill. It came to a head the day she found herself contemplating sleeping in the guest room just to escape the torment.
Starting therapy was hard. Having to admit that if given the opportunity, she would take back the man causing her mental anguish—that was downright embarrassing. It was her truth however, she would take him back, but only if he stood on his word. He promised to change, to be better for her and in the mean time she needed to do the same.
The knock on the door rouses her from yet another deep bout of rumination. She isn't quite used to the way sounds echo throughout this new space and with all the work she’d been forcing herself to commit to, there hadn’t been much time to get herself acclimated. Between the twins and picking up new clients, life hadn’t settled in months—neither had her mind.
Padding over to the front door, the peep hole revealed an empty doorstep and the furrow of her brow deepened when she opened it to find flowers. Crisp white roses.
Every Saturday for the last month she’d unlocked her front door and found the same thing. Roses, always white ones, never a note attached. At one point there was strong consideration of the possibility of having a stalker.
Then she promptly came to what she deemed a sophisticated conclusion, that the flower delivery was for the previous owner of the house and when they moved they forgot to end the service.
Unfortunate for them, but with no contact information available, she just decided to take advantage of the plight. She always did love roses and the neutral florals could be placed anywhere in her home without clashing.
Upon inspection of this newest delivery, the small white card neatly folded over and tucked into the front of the vase stops her in her tracks. A note. Warily reaching to retrieve it, the contents make her stomach flip.
Five months. It’d been five months since she even laid eyes on him and there was no way that he would choose today of all random days to start being amorous. Unless there actually was a stalker, there was no other person that this could have come from.
The photo he’d attached was one she’d never seen before, though she remembered the moment clearly.
On a private beach in Turks and Caicos. He sat with her perched on his lap, just minutes after attempting to convince her to take off her bikini top. Vowing that there was nobody around to witness his spontaneous attempts to engage in such debauchery. He swore that it was just them and the ocean—and their waiter evidently.
Georgios was the swanky restaurant downtown that they frequented and the night would only ever end one way. He was sorely mistaken if he believed that would be the outcome of tonight's endeavor. She has half a mind to skip out and give him a taste of how it feels to be inherently ignored.
Sure he’d been sending these notes and they were as close to sentimental as she would get with someone like him but it doesn't completely make up for the last seven months.
She wants to hear what he has to say however, wants to know what he's been up to all this time. To see firsthand if he’d really been making good on his promise to figure things out and make things right between them.
Just as she was putting the finishing touches on her makeup, the sound of a car door slamming outside drew her attention and the ring of her doorbell called her down the stairs and into her foyer.
A driver waiting on the other side of the door to transport her to this mysterious dinner. In his hands, another bouquet of roses and a lavishly wrapped gift box.
There's no note on the flowers this time, but as she unwraps the accompanying box to discover Dolce and Gabbana's “Devotion” it's easy for her to gather his intentions.
The first thing she notices following her arrival is the usually lively business appearing void of life. He’s waiting for her inside at the one table that'd been set for just them.
Candles and flowers occupy the other vacant areas. Never having seen the place anything less than overflowing, the quiet ambiance is welcome given the circumstances.
The kiss he plants on her cheek lingers and she's acutely aware of every inch of his body from the other side of the round booth. He’d slimmed down since the last time she's seen him.
Though she much preferred his stockier frame, she can't pretend that isn't alluring all the same.
On the ride over she’d come to the conclusion that letting him lead the conversation was a sure way for her to fall victim to the deep timber of his voice and end up missing her panties by the end of the night.
So, before the meal even arrived she dove into the array of questions she’d conjured up to neutralize any chances of coercion.
“Why all the flowers?”
“One for each month we’ve been apart. The rest were just because you like em.” He responds without hesitation.
“Why white?”
“Peace offerings” she turns her head to hide a growing smile.
“And the notes?”
“I wanted you to know that I'd been thinking about you.”
“It's gonna take more than flowers and a dinner date to fix things ya know.”
“i know.”
“Why didn't you call?
“Would you have answered?” the waiter makes his first appearance of the night to pour two glasses of her favorite wine.
“I don't know.” When he reaches to grab for her fingers across the table a moment for collection is needed. She couldn't remember the last time they’d even held hands and he let her bask in the silence for a while longer before pushing on.
“What are you thinking?” his thumb caresses the back of her knuckles.
“That I don’t trust you. You never let me in. All we do is fuck and pretend everything's ok, thats not a relationship Roman. I'm getting older. I wanna retire soon and travel. I wanna get married and have a baby or something. There's things that I want from life that I don’t think you’re able to give—”
“I’d give you anything you want. You wanna travel, just say where and we’ll go. You wanna retire and spend all day reading those nasty ass romance books then so be it. You wanna get married then we’ll get married. You wanna have a baby I'll gladly give you one—more than one actual—”
“It's not just about giving me what I want, Roman. You also have to want those things. If I told you I was pregnant right now you’d probably have a stroke.”
“I told you that I'm working on it, jireh.” Exasperation accompanies his words.
“What does that even mean? All you ever keep seeing is that your working on it and then it's the same shit over and over—”
“I’m in therapy now.” astonished isn't a strong enough word to describe the feeling coursing through her. She’d been screaming at him—literally, for years to see a professional and he’d finally heeded the advice.
“Like…real therapy? Or you've just been talking to the twins because if that's the case then—”
“No,” He shakes his head. Real therapy. With a real therapist, a lady named Margot”
“Margot huh?…Is she pretty?”
“She’s 65.”
“I was just asking!” She can feel his smirk from the corner of her eye while pretending to take in the restaurant's dim scenery.
“I think you're pretty, the prettiest girl i know actually” Her plan was failing, with so much time apart she forgot just how much of a smooth talker the man could be.
“You just wanna have sex with me.” She grumbled, crossing her arms to hide the rising goosebumps.
“Of course I do. But I'd like for it to be more than that. All that stuff you said you wanted, I want to give that to you but you have to trust me.”
“How can I? Look at all that’s happened”
“And am I to blame for all of it?” his head dips striving to connect with downcast eyes.
“No,” she mumbles.
“Exactly, most of it sure, but if we can’t trust each other then all of this is in vain baby.”
“I want to, I really do, but every time things are normal you flip shit on its head.”
“and I'm sorry. I really am but I don't know what else to say to prove to you that this time I'm serious about making shit right.”
It often felt like they were having the same argument time and time again without ever coming to a real resolve.
“Tell me what you talk about in therapy?”
“You.”
“Be serious.”
“I am.”
“I’m not all you talk about in therapy roman.”
“I talk about other things, but mainly you”
“What are the other things?”
“Work, you, the twins, my paren—”
“Tell me about your parents. Every time I asked before you dodged the question.” A muscle quivers at his jaw, the same way it did all the other times she’d asked. When he begins looking around the otherwise vacant restaurant, she’s sure he’ll change the subject.
The surprise is surely evident on her face when he doesn’t.
“What do you wanna know?”
“Why do you hate them so much?”
“My mom was his mistress and when she got pregnant with me he left her. My parents got married after my dad's wife found out he’d cheated. I was almost five by that point. Mom never wanted kids. Dad wanted to be with his other family. I didn't get nice clothes and warm home cooked dinners growing up. Wore the wrong size shoes to school for almost five years— hell If I didn't go to school with the twins I probably wouldn't have made it to school most days."
“When my mom died, my dad kicked me out the day of the funeral. I was sixteen. The first birthday gift I ever got was the day I turned seventeen, the twins mom was big on stuff like that. Growing up all I did was cry and beg for them to give me the time of day I swore that I would never do that again for anybody ever. The day my dad died was the happiest I'd felt in years, Jireh.” sliding around the booth until their thighs were flush, her arms wrapped around his shoulder pulling him into a silent embrace. Tears pooling in her lashline.
“I’m not a good man. I'm not kind and I'm not patient but for you I'd do whatever it takes. If you wanted me to get on my knees and beg, I'd do it right now. I’m miserable baby” Pulling back she looks him in the eye, taking the time to caress the skin of his face.
“You're not a bad person, you've just spent your whole life trying to survive. It's time to start living, papa.”
Embraces him again, her head rests against his consolingly.
The gnawing question in the back of her mind is too invasive after some time in the silence and she can't help but let it out.
“Can I ask you another question?” she can feel his nod against her shoulder
“How’d you get my address?” The snicker he lets out is uncharacteristically loud and for the first time in months there's a semblance of normalcy.
–
When dinner is had and the conversation begins to fade they make their way to the front of the restaurant.
“Coulda sworn I told you to wear something warm.”
“And I could swear that we’re in the middle of Miami…this is warm.” gesturing down to the long sleeve minidress molded to her body. His eyes slip past her torso to the extent of her exposed legs.
“Not exactly what I meant”
“What? Can't stand the sight of my grotesque figure?” she cocks her head to the side, raising a brow in challenge.
“Grotesque isn't the word I would use” he murmurs, eyes raking over her body enticingly slow.
“In your dreams” she mocks, stomping off to her awaiting vehicle. He follows behind her and her heart rate spikes the minute he slides into the vehicle after her, slamming the door closed.
Though they just sat across from each other for hours, being in an enclosed space this way brought back too many memories of impromptu sexual endeavors that surely would have gotten them arrested if discovered.
“And where do you think you're going?” she tosses out, pressing her body as far into the opposite corner as physically possible. Amusement flickered in the eyes that met hers.
“I’m not following you home Jireh,” He chuckled at her antics. “But, I never said our night was over.”
Through the entire ride to their mystery destination she stole glances at him in her peripheral vision. A few times she fully turned her head pretending to gaze out of the other window.
She gave that up on her last attempt when she found him already gazing at her, jestfully blowing her a kiss once their eyes connected. She’d whipped her head around and hadn't moved it since, until, the vehicle rolled to a stop on what looked like an airplane runway.
“Are you trying to kidnap me?” His answer is drowned out by the loud whoosh of air surrounding them. When it comes to an end she turns her body to glance out of the rear windshield. A sleek black helicopter filling her vision.
An unexpected warmth surged through her. “You remembered,” she whispered in his direction, voice shakier than she would have liked. Once again surprised by his unpredictability.
“I remember everything about you Ji.” Their driver opening the door whisks away the tension in the air and they’re escorted onto the awaiting aircraft.
“It's gonna be fine,” he murmurs into her ear, helping her buckle the safety harness. “These guys are the best in the business.” he promises before leaning back and buckling his own.
When they start to rise she unconsciously lands a hand on his thigh and feels the supple muscle tense under her grip. Calloused fingers trail over her knuckles, relaxing their hold and intertwining their palms.
𝐀𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐥 𝟏𝟖𝐭𝐡, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟔
Though he’d been regularly clocking into work with the lead up to such a momentous event and there was the possibility of them regularly crossing paths, he’d made it a point to give her isolated time to consider their relationship. Each week a new time and location arrived with her regular floral delivery and each week it became more challenging not to jump his bones wherever they ended up.
Before the busy season of media and interviews stole him away he’d rented out an entire botanic garden. For hours they talked and ate—he’d even obtained a water painting art kit for her to enjoy. When she asked why he’d only gotten one he proceeded to tell her that the art he’d wanted to see was right in front of him before boldly raking his eyes down her figure. On their ride back to her home she’d had to forcefully stop herself from climbing into his lap.
She’d hadn't seen much from him since then. She wouldn't hold it against him given how important the upcoming weekend was. He’d made sure she was taken care of however. She and the twins were upgraded to first class on their flights and the penthouse suite she’d been conveniently upgraded to was one of the only two rooms on the floor.
It sent a shudder down her spine in a garbled sense of deja vu. The last time they were in these circumstances she let him do unspeakable things after a simple “I’m sorry”. Giving into sexual advances would be counterproductive but after so long partaking in voluntary celibacy, even the thought of him has her running hot below the belt.
A knock on the door hinders a trip down memory lane and she all but runs to answer in hopes to escape the explicit fantasies creeping up her spine. Opening the door reveals the star of said fantasies holding a bouquet of blood red roses and she has to grip the edge of the door to keep her knees from buckling.
“Delivery's a lil late today.” his voice is raspy from overuse and she nods woodenly brain still unable to escape the suggestive visions flashing behind dreamy eyes.
Extending the flowers out to me he takes a step back.Glancing down, I notice another one of the small cards inked with his handwriting. Peering up at him suspiciously he appears to be waiting for me to read it.
𝑇𝑖𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝑢𝑝. 𝑇𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑚𝑒. —𝑅
He’s speaking before she even finishes reading.
“I’m not good at this. I won't pretend to all of a sudden be some sappy and shit but I want you Jireh. I want us. It’s not fair for you to always be chasing after me. Whatever I have to do to meet you where you're at, I'll do it.”
She still hasn't picked her head up from the bouquet.
“Why’d you put me in this room?”
“Needed you close by. We’ve spent too much time apart.”
“Think I've heard that before,”.
“Well this isn't like before. I'm serious about what I said.”
“which part”
“All the parts. If you want to get married we can go downstairs right now. I'm sure there's a chapel open somewhere. You don't want a chapel, we'll rent out a museum. Anything you want.” Stepping closer he allows his voice to dip just for her ears though there's no one else around to see how close they stand. You wanna have a baby, I'll gladly put one in you all you have to do is ask. You want me to build you a house from the ground up. I'll do it. anything you want i’ll do it but you have to trust me to take care of you.”
A tense silence passes between them and after what feels like centuries she finally lifts her head with a nod. “Ok”
“Ok?”
“I’ll trust you..but I have rules.”
A quick twitch of his lips precedes his hasty agreement, not giving her time to change her mind. “let me hear i—”
“You can't quit therapy just because we’re back together.”
"Ok”
“And I want us to go to couples therapy… like twice a month”
“ok”
“and we need to get a dog before we have a baby, I need to make sure you have what it takes”
His smile widens. “whatever you want.”
“right—and for a while we can't live together if we’re starting from scratch.”
he lets out a deep sigh running a hand over his beard. “ok no living together—”
“and you need to decorate your house, we wouldn't always have to be at mine if yours wasn't barren like a hospital”
“hire someone to decorate…ok”
“and no sex— “
His eyes go comically wide. “wait a sec—”
“Let me finish talking. No sex unless you come back here tomorrow night with a title. I don’t fuck losers”
He laughed then, sincerely amused by her ultimatum. “Yes ma’am.”
“ok..good..glad we’re on the same page. well good luck tomorrow…goodnight.”
“Goodnight jireh.” even with her body half turned back into her doorway she can hear the playfulness in his tone.
From the corner of her eye she watches him back away slowly. There's only so much restraint a woman can have. Quickly setting the flowers on the ground and calling out to him. His brows raise in a question that never earns a chance to escape his parted lips. Wrapping around the fabric of his top she heaves him forward. Flushing the curves of her body to the exaggeratedly defined hard planes of his.
He keeps her cradled close to his chest while sneaky hands descend and attach to the firm muscle of her backside groping and reacclimating to the expanse of it. Tongues collide in slippery caresses. biting and sucking at each other with enough fervor to provoke a loud moan, which one of them it came from is a mystery.
When her hands begin a scandalous descent down the expanse of his chest, it's him that pulls away with labored breaths. No words are spoken between them and she's gone as quick as she arrived. “Same time tomorrow?" he questions cheekily to her retreating figure.
“In your dreams” she returns without looking back, cheeks flushed. scooping up the discarded florals and slamming the door behind her. She can hear his laugh echo into the empty hallway from where she's firmly planted on the other side. The giddiness unfolding in her body makes her feel that of a school girl with their first crush. Burying her nose in the flowers and taking a deep whiff she can't help but let out a silent scream jumping around in unadultured excitement.
—
Watching him maneuver around the ring did nothing to throttle the arousal lingering in her from the previous night. It was rare for her to watch matches from in the crowd but upon his request she watched from the seats at ring side. She didn’t miss the way he stole glances at her through the night and her thighs clenched each time their eyes connected through the mayhem.
It’d been a long time since she saw confetti rain down in such perfect harmony. Four whole years since. Parading around with his accomplishments held high over his head felt like twisted deja vu, somehow back exactly where they started all that time ago.
Hair unkempt and body battered he rolled out of the ring, leaving his newest title behind. The crowd's deafening roar fell silent on her ears the closer he got. Standing parallel, separated only by the squat barricade she raises her eyebrows in anticipation. She's partially aware of all the cameras pointed in their direction but when he leans closer into her space engulfing her in a sweaty embrace he’s the only thing she can focus on.
Any other time she would chastise him for covering her in the perspiration but with his voice resounding in her ear she pays it no mind. “Maybe we should skip the dog and try for that baby.”
Pulling back to look into her eyes he can see the playful recognition of her previous specifications. Gripping onto the forearms wrapped around her waist she extends her neck to place her mouth at his ear whispering a sweet, “In your dreams”. Before attaching her mouth to his in a hungry kiss and the reverberation from the crowd carries them away.
𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞| well friends, this is the official end of Dear Desperado, anything else that gets written for these two will be AU's or shorts. cant believe I finished a series what the helly! Thank you guys for reading all this craziness and I may or may not have a short coming within the next few days.
No matter how long she combed through her mind, this dilemma was completely and utterly of her own making. Their relationship—if she could even call it that, was never meant to make it this far. It was supposed to just be a distraction to keep her from drowning in the loneliness she felt at the time. Then the distraction became a semi permanent fixture in her life unconsciously.
It should have ended months ago, when she realized she’d bitten off more than she could chew. It probably would have, if she would have spent more time in the present and not planning for a future with an old lover.
She blames him really, if he would have just left her alone that night at the club she’d have taken the hint and moved on for good…eventually.
The scalding water does nothing to wash away the anxiety coursing through her veins. Though she’s known for having an extensive hygiene routine, tonight's shower is abnormally long— even for her standards. No matter how long she prepped, nothing seemed to be going according to plan.
They were supposed to go to dinner, she would be the bearer of bad news, they would part ways and then she would spend the rest of her career at wwe avoiding his presence. Yet here she was hiding in the shower like the coward she’d accused Roman of being.
Finally gaining the courage to depart from the steamy glass her skincare routine flew by. The oils and butters massaged into her skin were fully absorbed and she was fully dressed, stood unmoving, watching herself in the mirror.
If you looked hard enough you would see that some of the leftover steam in the air was coming from the top of her head. Her mind conjuring up possible scenarios for how the night would go.
Since he was currently in her home he would find it strange to now drive them both to dinner. If he drives to dinner how would she get home after the inevitable? He could behave like a gentleman in public and then attempt to leave her on the side of the road half way back to her place.
What if he has a meltdown in the restaurant? What if someone sees and records it for the internet? What if—a knock at the bathroom door interrupts the runaway train that is her mind.
Taking a deep breath and putting on the biggest, fakest, smile she could muster, she makes her way to the door. Upon opening it there stands Jason with a scowl on his face and a white knuckle grip on her unlocked cell phone.
“Are you—”
“You think he can do it better than you? I don’t know Jireh…can I?” The question is clearly rhetorical but the answer sits heavy on her mind nonetheless.
Quickly coming to terms with the fact that she was in for a great deal more than just a quick cut and dry “sorry this can’t work” and goodbye. Seeing no other choice but to face this head on, she lets out a heavy sigh and ambles past him into her living room.
The scoff he lets out crawls up her spine and digs into the back of her skull. She can feel the ire flickering off of him like unruly flames.
“Well? Yes or no. I’d really love to know actually — while you’re at it I’d also love to know when you had time to throw pussy at Roman Reigns.” she rolls her eyes at the crude language he’s tossing around.
Though they’d been spending time together over the past few months it was rare for Jireh to see him this worked up.
“What do you want me to say?” evidently she’d picked up a few nasty tricks from the Roman Reigns book of conflict evasion.
“Nah don’t give me that passive bullshit. What do I want you to say? I want you to answer my question.”
“We used to be together…kinda”
“You used to be together kinda?”
“For a few years, we ended things before the rumble.” He didn't need to know that her statement was technically not completely true. Getting into the semantics might make the situation worse than it already is and this is ramping up to be too much of the already too big piece she’s bit off and physically could not chew.
“and that does nothing to explain how I’m finding you sending naked pictures to him now in August.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Uncomplicate it.” It was an impossible feat. How could she explain to him that the foundation of the relationship he believed them to be building, was her inability to accept that the man she loved may not ever be able to love her the same way.
“I don’t want to do this with you right now” It was definitive just how much she sounded like him in the moment and it made her stomach churn.
“Oh I get it. You see he’s fucking on Aaliyah and now you want that old thing back?” The air in her home seemed to be rapidly vacuuming out and the flush beneath her cheeks was a combination of embarrassment and anger.
She knew he had no idea what he was talking about yet his words wounded her all the same.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about—"
“Oh please Jireh give me a break, aye next time you see him, ask him how many bitches just like you he’s had on that bus—”
“Don’t talk to me like that.” Ignoring her interjection he continues on his tirade.
“Y’all laid up and played house and what..you thought you’d be the one to get him settle down. You’re funny you really are, I thought you were smarter than that.”
“We weren’t playing house. Don’t try and tell me about my life.”
“Well then how come nobody knew huh?” His words feel mocking and the thought is cemented when he begins to chuckle at her delayed response.
“You should go”
“I should go?” he scoffs, “I catch you in some shit and now I’m the one that has to go?” Wiping a hand down his face he lets out another snicker.
“If you want we can talk about this another time but right now you’re upset and I don’t think—”
“Upset?” he throws his hands in the air. “Why wouldn’t I be upset? I mean really Jireh what did you think was going to happen? You would fuck me for a few months and then toss me out when he was tired of fucking around?”
“You’re being spiteful. It’s—”
“Not like that… Yeah I’m sure,” Hands on his hips, he cocks his head to the side, surveying her. “You know you’re just like the rest of them.” He points at the phone he’d tossed atop the glass table when they first entered the room. “All that shit in there, that shits pathetic— begging for attention and he couldn't give a fuck less about you.” His words sting, yet she takes the verbal lashing in silence. Despite her displeasure with the way he’s speaking to her, she knows deep down that it’s deserved.
“Have a good life Jireh. I hope you get what you so desperately wanted.”
When her front door slams it leaves her slumping over onto the cushions, letting heavy arms fall over her eyes. Jason's words swarm through her mind like bees that she can’t escape. Was she pathetic? Was all the effort even worth it?
Just two days prior she’d spoken to the cause of all this disarray on the phone. What seemed like a victory then, is sitting heavy on her conscience now. He’d said it himself, time and time again, she needed to stop. What other choice did she have? to give up? Let him get away with ruining what was good for the both of them. Was it good for the both of them? or was it what she wanted?
The buzzing in her mind intensifies with each new thought. Rolling onto her side, she buries her face deep into the back cushion, willing away the roiling in her stomach. The next time she opens her eyes, it’s the morning.There's no chance to even feel relief because reality comes crashing down on her.
𝙰𝚞𝚐𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝟹𝟷, 𝙲𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚑 𝚒𝚗 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚜
Drowning her sorrows in tequila has proven to be catastrophic time and time again but maybe this time she’d prevail. Surrounded by her coworkers in a foreign club to celebrate another successful PLE and yet her mind keeps playing the same images on repeat.
It started out well and ended in mayhem. Curled in on himself, chest heaving in anguish. Over and over she watched the breath be stolen from his lungs until that stretcher wheeled him away. Some would say it’s what he deserves—Jason surely would.
She could see the revulsion on his face as he was forced to assist Roman out of harm's way. Even once they entered into gorilla he quickly departed from the man's side, letting the medical team do their jobs. The look he cast in her direction was far from amicable.
The last time he suffered these types of injuries he came to her and she was there to offer solace. That very same night he promised her he would stay. Promised that the endless game of push and pull would come to an end.
Now she's found herself in an odd predicament of mastering the pull all on her own after delivering the final and fatal push. Muscle memory has a filthy habit of kicking in at the worst of times.
Originally, he tried to talk her out of it, telling her to give him space and that he would “come around.” It wasn’t what she wanted to hear. It was unclear how many she’d sent at that point. It started with just one, earlier in the night to see if he was ok. Then came multiple rounds of tequila and the burn began to coincide with each following message.
Perhaps it was his own slew of alcoholic beverages slowing his cognitive function, or maybe his own concern for his unresponsive cousin, but it didn’t take much to convince Jimmy to give up his room information.
That’s how she found herself at the only pharmacy open at that time of the night. Scouring the isles with blurred vision for what she deemed peace offerings. It took a store clerk taking pity on her drunken figure to help her interpret the foreign language on all the merchandise. She couldn't even remember what exactly was in the bag she toted up to his suite.
The entire time pursuing through the small store she wondered what she would say to him once she saw him. That all came to a screeching halt when she laid the first gentle knock on his door.
Donning a skintight minidress and carrying a bag full of mystery components he was sure to assume that she was showing up with nefarious intent. Realizing too late just how this situation may look. There was no time for her to turn away and rethink her drunken plan because the door handle turned down and clicked open.
You would never have known she’d been regularly sending pictures and videos of herself in various states of undress with the way she stands stock still at the sight of him. Allows him to take her in from head to toe before coming up with her most coherent sentence over the last few hours.
“I just wanted to make sure you were ok.” She presents the bag of supplies to him. “I got this for you. peace offering.” His fingers briefly brush against hers when he takes the hefty bag from her.
Not knowing what else to say she gives him a thin smile and takes a step away ready to make a prompt exit before his drowsy voice halts her. Taking a step out of the door and clearing his throat.
“Do you wanna come in?” Her mind immediately screams yes but her mouth opens and promptly closes as she flounders around for her next words. Hands flailing out from their folded position in front of her.
“I probably shouldn’t." seeing the dejection on his face she jumps to convey her true meaning. “I didn’t come here for anything—or because of the—I just wanted to make sure you were ok…that’s all.” her voice fading toward the end.
“We should talk,” he prompts. His words send a frog leaping into her throat that is exceptionally hard to swallow and she swears she can feel a bead of sweat running down her spine.
Her fingers entangle themselves nervily and she nods her head. “ok—ok sure.” She tries to sound assured but feminine intuition tells her that things won’t go how she’s been hoping. He steps back into the room then, holding the door ajar and for the first time tonight she takes in his attire.
The black tank top clings to him and she can see the wet spot from where a cold compress must have lain. Once the door seals behind them she makes her way toward the sofa tucked into the corner.
She can hear him rummaging around in the bag as he gets closer and when he sits in the chair opposite of her he’s brandished a Lavender scented pain relief gel.
“Couldn’t help yourself could you?” he chastises, flipping the small bottle around to her with the briefest of smiles.
“Oh please, don’t pretend you don’t like lavender.” she quips with a playful eyeroll.
They’re cast in a tranquil silence then. She’s the first to speak when that tranquility turns to unspoken ambiguity.
“What are we doing?” she whispers hoping maybe he wouldn’t hear and give her an answer that she dreaded accepting. For the past few days, Jason's words have rung steady through her mind.
From the very beginning she knew that he was a flawed man and she would never regret the time they spent together. But she had to come to terms with the fact that maybe they weren’t meant to be together. They say if you love something let it go and it was highly possible that their time together had come to an end. She needed to be a big girl and set him free.
“I’ll stop.” His eyes find hers and the dip of his eyebrows convey more than just confusion. “If you really don't want this, if you really want me to leave you alone I will. But you gotta give me something, anything. I can't do this all on my own.” Her eyes well with tears and she turns her head away from his gaze.
The tear that escapes is promptly swiped away by fingers that don’t belong to her. He’s sitting next to her now, pulling her into his chest and wrapping her in a longing embrace. The tears come freely then from somewhere deep inside like a dam that’s been waiting to overflow. They sit embraced until her breath evens out and the river of tears slows. Being wrapped in his arms feels like returning to her home that she’d been forced to abandon.
“I think about you all the time.” is how he breaks the silence against the crown of her hair. “Everyday I wish you were with me—”
“then—”
“Let me finish, ok?” wrapping a hand around her jaw to lift her head he looks deep into her eyes.
“But I don’t know how to do this—”
“I can help you—”
“Jireh. It's not your responsibility to help me.”
“Roman—” trying to make him see was exasperating.
“It’s not. It’s something I have to figure out on my own. It’s not fair to drag you down if I don’t know that I'll be able to get back up,” more tears pool at her lashline. “I want—I need to be better, for you. But I don’t know how and I need some time to figure it out, ok?”
“How much time?” she murmurs tearfully.
Looking at her reminds him of when he was a child crying and begging for his parents to love him the way others loved their sons and daughters. Crushing her back to his chest he lets her cry into him once again— hoping that this time will be the last time he’s ever the cause of a breakdown of this magnitude.
Hours go by and he watches the light change through the room. Both of them, sitting in absolute silence, stay wrapped in each other's arms, soaking in what may possibly be their final moments together forever. “I want to do this the right way. I don’t know how long it's gonna take but I'm gonna try, I swear I will.” Without lifting her head, he can feel her nodding against his chest.
“I love you.” she whispers to him.
“I love you too.” he whispers back and the grip on his shirt is followed by more tears. The first time he’s ever said it and it may possibly be the last.
𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞| ok good news. part II is already finished just needs to be edited. Bad news is, I'm not posting it till Monday cause life is getting busy and I can't feed yall too much at once....sorry🤍
anywhoooo as always, thanks for reading and if you have questions comments or concerns yk what to do. smooches💋
“shh,” he shushes you by placing his fingers in your mouth while using the other hand to push inside of you.
he’d done a little convincing to get you on board w this. you were always begging him to practice safe sex, and after a while it started to bore him. he needed to feel you — not w some stupid latex getting in the way. little by little, he’d sprinkle in small phrases to ease your nerves, almost like he was soft launching his raging breeding kink.
“you do love me, right?” he would coo, his eyes darting between your rising chest and the innocent glimmer in your eyes. “you’d do anything to make me happy, wouldn’t u love? y’know you’d make daddy the happiest man alive if he could just make you a mommy. you’d be so beautiful,” he’d continue, pressing his hand against your stomach.
but his personal favorite? “don’t even have to work hard for it, angel. just hold still and take it, it’ll be worth it. i promise…”
he cups your chin, coaxing you to speak, but all that comes out are broken little whines. each slow, deep stroke leaves your eyes rolling back, your sweet body struggling to keep up with the way he moves inside of you.
he wanted you right there with him, feeling every inch instead of getting lost in it. he watched the uncertainty in your pretty eyes slowly turn into arousal as his pelvic bone graze against your clit, his hips rolling forward with steady, deliberate pressure. “hmm… wait, it feels so good. it’s…” you pant, your words breaking apart every time he bottoms out. he looks into your eyes, his pace never faltering as he shoved his fingers in and out of your mouth, muffling your pleas.
his gaze never leaves yours. it’s almost unnerving how calm he looks, especially when he’s literally fucking you stupid.
his praises were so effortless it almost sounded genuine as he used his fingers that were in your mouth to stimulate your clit. “mhmmm, i know baby,” he breathed, almost like he was answering both of you. “you’re doing so good.”
your hand lifts on instinct, fingertips weakly wrapping around his arm, you don’t even have the strength to push.
“move your hand baby…..you're okay.”
you let it fall back beside your head with a quiet whimper, your fingers curling into the sheets instead.
“you’re such a good girl.” he watches your face for the smallest reaction. “you like when i call you that?”
“mhm,” you answered quietly, your chest rose unevenly.
“do you believe that you’re a good girl?”
you nodded.
“then tell me.” he drawled, each word punctuated by the slow roll of his hips, never letting your attention drift.
“oh my gosh…” your voice caught on a shaky breath before you moaned out, “i’m a good girl, roman…” your legs lifted almost instinctively, crossing behind his back.
truthfully, you’ve never really fantasized abt this, abt him doing this to your body, but there’s something about having him inside you. you don’t think it’ll be too bad if he decided to breed you.
“what’s in that pretty head, angel?” he asks condescendingly, studying your face. “thinking of carrying my baby?”
you part your lips to answer, but he grabs your jaw in a firm grip, lips pressed together before a thin string of saliva falls onto your tongue. the sight alone has him cursing under his breath.
“mommy,” roman chuckles though the word leaving him breathless. “such a nice ring to it, huh?”
a whiny sound slips from your throat, “ro…” his hands steady your waist, keeping you perfectly still while he fucks you. every touch leaves your body feeling less like your own, your legs trembling hard enough that they’re slowly losing their grip.
“you said you wanted this," he growled lowly, “you told me you were a good girl… that you’d do anything to make me happy.”
you let out another helpless whine in protest, “please, i’m going-” you started as that familiar warmth begins to build low in your stomach.
“not yet, baby,” his fingertips colliding harshly with your clit, “daddy’s still fucking a baby in you.”
the intensity was unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. you were used to the slow kisses, whispered reassurances, the carefulness that always came with a condom. but now, there’s that yearning to be bred.
so when the moment finally comes, there isn’t a single word that could describe the rush that crashes over you. it hits all at once, leaving your body trembling as you cling to him. your eyes squeeze shut as warmth floods through you, the feeling so overwhelming as you gasp, “i feel it!”
“that’s so good, baby,” he smirked, pulling out and inspecting your hole for himself. he took his time, admiring the sight before he absentmindedly pressed his fingers inside of you. a quiet hum left him at the soft, wet squelch… you caught yourself watching him as he watched his fingers fuck his cum back inside of you.
this smau follows the social media elements of the events of roman and capri's final split in 2023 and her pregnancy with lorelei in early 2024. this was meant to be posted alongside a short of the same name so certain context may be missing, but it'll make sense after that is posted. this smau spans the period of a year so dates are important.
𝄞 some nights we're both tired, tired and our mind's gone. you work me too hard G, work me to the white bone. 𝄞
author’s note: my deepest apologies for how long this took. life be lifing. i'd read this one carefully. certain things are revealed and/or inferred indirectly.
pairing: roman reigns x black!oc x jey uso
warnings: angst. strong themes regarding infidelity, domestic violence, and death. psychological elements. some scenes may be triggering and difficult to read. reader discretion is strongly advised.
words: 5k+
song inspo: ❝ somewhere only we know❞ by keane
credit: photos from pinterest and google images. fic and chapter title graphics by me. mdni divider by @strangergraphics
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Heaven feigns a loud sigh and blows out a dramatic breath, making the curls spilling over her face to fly forward before tossing down against her cheek. She pushes back a tendril and tucks it behind her ear. Shrugging and another feigned exhale accompany the way she looks at her nails. Short, almond, painted the perfect shade of white that matches the loose dress with flowy sleeves, a cinched waist, and brushes the top of her knees.
“I guess I won’t be able to find her…”
Her intentional announcement is accompanied by the way she carefully, slowly, and methodically takes step by step, the blades of forest green grass tickling the portion of skin exposed on her feet from her sandals. “I can’t believe she really beat me….” Continuing to lean into the performance, it’s only when she catches the the glimpse of an arm with a complexion several shades lighter than the tree she hides behind that Heaven makes her grand reveal.
“There she is!”
The shout comes seconds after Heaven jumps forward and attempts to grab her. Happy, loud giggles as she breaks free from Heaven’s loose hold and starts to run away. Her little legs only taking her so far before Heaven grabs her again, this time the two of them falling into the ground.
The pasture absorbs their bodies like a memory foam pillow, molding around the curves of Heaven’s body as the little girl lays on top of her and continues to laugh happily from the way Heaven playfully tickles.
“You found me!”
“I did,” Heaven’s smile deepens, her eyes narrowing from the fleeting glimpses of sun that rains down on her, peaking through the head of dark curls every time she writhes and wiggles from the tickle session.
It’s when she rolls over, however, and Heaven can feel the full strength of the sun that her smile settles, her shoulders sink deeper into the grass, and her eyes shut. There aren’t enough words to adequately describe the level of…peace she feels in this moment. The sun is bright but the heat is almost nonexistent. The aroma of fresh flowers that don’t crush under her weight but instead bow almost in reverence around their bodies. Faint whistles and swishing sounds of the wind brushing against the most beautiful example of God’s finest work that Heaven has ever seen.
Never an outside person, there’s nothing that she can list off as a con for the space that feels less like a pasture and more like a safe haven.
Rolls and valleys of endless greenery and forestry. There’s an aura that feels almost too good to be real. Like it contains and conveys a level of peace that defies and contrasts reality and what exists in the realm of capabilities.
Heaven feels so….light.
She feels free.
The sort of free that one prays for but rarely ever achieves.
At least….not in this life.
The laughter once more draws her focus as mischief flashes in her pretty eyes before she jumps up and starts to run off once more. Heaven’s smile deepens as she too sits up and starts to give chase when she stops. Turns her head just enough to where the breeze brushes past her hair, whipping it against her face as her brows start to cave inward and the smile falters.
Something…..
Something’s not right.
She continues to turn around, the peace that encompassed is now one that unsettles. It’s all so perfect. Too perfect.
And then she hears it. Hears the sound that makes her entire body still and toes dig into the ground that suddenly feels impossibly softer than before. As if it's adapted. As if it’s molding itself to her feet to keep her planted when her knees begin to wobble and balance falters.
Giggles.
That of a child. A little girl.
And not the one a few feet away.
“Macy…”
Heaven turns around, eyes foraging the vast plains as if trying to seek out the voice. Seek her.
She starts to step forward when a small tug on her dress forces her to turn around. Heaven looks down to see the little girl staring up at her with that same gaze of excitement and with that happy smile that reveals a top and bottom row of small, perfectly straight, white teeth. Impossibly white, almost.
A recurring theme of this place, it seems.
Impossibility.
Releasing the fabric, she instead makes a beckoning motion with her fingers before reaching for Heaven’s hand, all five wrapping around and giving a light squeeze.
It’s a grasp that the older woman allows, but it’s the extent of permission granted as Heaven plants her feet in the ground. The crumble of the young girl’s smile evokes a heavy lump in the back of Heaven's throat and births a weight that sits on her chest. Anchors her body down both physically and metaphorically, as she drops to her knees, hands to the child’s shoulders.
She swallows, feeling that familiar burning sensation that’s intensified by the way the sun beams down on her. “You are an amazing little girl, sweetie.” Words that comes from a place she can’t identify, but it’s a place that feels familiar. Natural. Innate. “But I know another amazing little girl, and she needs me. She—she needs me more than you do.”
And Heaven needs her. Perhaps more than the other way around.
It’s a realization spurned simply from the sound of her daughter’s laughter. One of the best sounds in the world, and one that she can’t push from her head. Hears on repeat at a volume that feels like it only knows increase.
But the space reserved for her sweet Macy is shared with concern for this girl in front of her who reminds her so much of her daughter. Heaven expects the disappointment that flashes in her eyes, but it’s when she briefly breaks away that the guilt forms.
“Honey—”
Heaven stops when she realizes the girl isn’t going far. Just quickly scuffles a few feet away to a strip of flowers and picks two before quietly returning to Heaven who observes them with marvel and curiosity. It’s such a strange variation of which she’s never seen before. A crossbreed of roses and tulips.
One pink and one blue.
But the curiosity travels when the girl reaches with her free hand and pushes past the swell of the material to touch Heaven’s stomach. It’s a touch that makes her gasp from the memory that instantly slams into her.
The baby…
For the first time since awaking in this sort of paradise, dread begins to seep in. But it’s monetarily paused when she watches the girl’s smile revive as she lifts her eyes to meet Heaven’s and offers the flowers that are easily and naturally accepted. Even as the confusion remains.
“I don’t….” She stumbles. “I don’t und—”
Her small fingers rubbing gently against Heaven’s belly as she drops her eyes once more before lifting them and nodding happily. But once more, another unexpected act when the child lunges forward and hugs her.
Heaven’s shoulders instantly relax, the flowers still gripped in her hand as she returns the embrace. She closes her eyes, another wave of ardent emotion overtaking her. A sense of despondency and regret.
Like she doesn’t want to do this.
Like she doesn’t want to leave.
Like she doesn’t want to leave this little girl. Because leaving her almost feels like….it feels like she’s leaving Macy.
But she’s not. She’s leaving her because of Macy.
So why does it feel like there isn’t much of a difference?
If any.
“It’s okay.” Heaven gasps as the child breaks her silence. Her small voice, light and pure, sounding and reminding her so much of Macy. “And it’s okay you didn’t keep me. I know you wanted to.” The quietest intake of breath is followed by the way Heaven's eyes shoot open, electricity dancing up her spine. Her fingers both somehow tingling and numb concurrently.
What….what did she just say?
The little girl presses her body closer, as if wanting to mold the two of them together, to soak in and capture this moment as much as she possibly can.
To never forget.
“Bye, mommy.”
——————
A multitude of senses are triggered almost immediately and simultaneously, but the first thing that Heaven can detect in this new realm of consciousness are the sounds. A variety of them, most of which are sounded out by a consistent, regulated beep that’s both familiar and disconcerting. That discomfort is exacerbated by the way she struggles to open her eyes, several flutters and focused efforts needed to lift and maintain. An uphill battle similar to that of pushing a large boulder up the steep heel of setbacks but one she overcomes and largely because of the new sound that’s added to her immediate environment.
“Heaven?”
Another familiar sound that's partially drowned out in the midst of Heaven also becoming more aware of her surrounding. The sounds. The sterile, non-existent smell in the room. The heaviness of her body and cool, foreign sensations up and down her arms. A throbbing one near her right shoulder. She manages a deep breath through her still closed mouth when the view of the still slightly blurred television is replaced with a set of eyes similar to her own.
Her mom’s.
“Oh, thank God.” Heaven groans lowly as her mother reaches to caress the top of her head, watery eyes locked on her. “My beautiful girl.”
Blinking several times over, Heaven continues to work to reach the point where she can communicate, but the grogginess is consistent and persistent. Awareness intermittent, to a certain extent. Enough to where she hears and sees the way her mother briefly turns her head and calls for a nurse before she’s focused on her daughter once more. “Heaven, do you know where you are?”
Heaven offers a small nod, and it might be the easiest thing she’s done. A hospital. She’s in a hospital.
But why?
And because Shelia Jackson is nothing short of sharp—if not psychic—she reads the question that doesn’t even need to be asked.
“Honey….” Heaven observes the subtle motion in the middle of her mother’s neck, a small bulge forming and disappearing. A swallow. A deep one. “You were attacked—”
Perhaps additional words follow the word ‘attacked,’ but it’s all incoherent mush that’s barely audible amidst the rush of memories that slam into Heaven with enough force to send her back if she wasn’t already lying down.
The fire.
Macy.
Jey.
The hotel.
Roman.
Macy.
Whatever time has passed since her entire world began to crumble before her very eyes is suddenly filled with horrifying remembrance of what initially brought her to the hospital.
And she doesn’t mean her own admission.
“Macy,” Heaven croaks, a sting in the back of her throat as she forces herself to speak for what must be the first time in—how long has she been asleep? “Where—where’s Macy?”
An attempt to sit up brings about a sharp, sudden pain in her shoulder as Shelia drops her hand to Heaven’s forearm.
“Careful, baby. You—” She stops, Heaven’s furrowed brows lifting to meet her mother’s eyes once more. “You were shot.”
Once more, a stillness that halts her movements and attempted efforts at answers. Heaven….remembers it. Remembers being at the hotel, at hearing a knock at the door, expecting to see the woman in front of her on the other side.
It wasn’t.
It was someone else she thought she knew. Someone she thought she loved. And maybe she did. But whatever love existed for the man she’s spent the better part of her life with died the moment he left her baby inside that burning building.
And once more, Heaven casts aside any thoughts and considerations for herself. She can work through that later.
She needs to get to her daughter.
She needs to get to Macy.
Heaven attempts to snatch her arm away from her mom, ignoring the stinging sensation of the IV in her arm shifting from the sudden movements. Shelia presses her lips together as Heaven continues to find her voice. “Where’s Macy?”
Shelia opens her mouth, her own sympathetic expression unchanging when rushed footsteps draws the focus of both mother and daughter. Shelia straightens as Heaven remains steadfast in her efforts to, one, get up, and two, get up to find her daughter. Regardless of the nurses and doctor moving towards her.
The doctor, an older man with a balding head and crows eyes but a seemingly genuine disposition, steps closer. His voice calm and soothing. “Mrs. Uso—”
“I want to see my daughter,” she interrupts, uncaring of feigning pleasantries for the sake of it. Being nice and displaying manners is the last fucking thing on her mind. “Where—”
An additional set of hands and the feeling of being surrounded and overwhelmed heighten Heaven’s anxiety, as words and fragmented sentences continue to float in and out.
“….bullet missed the heart and lungs….”
“………significant blood loss…..”
“……hemorrhagic shock……”
“………..emergency surgery….....”
“……,…babies are stable….....”
“……..two days……”
All of it is relevant information, of that, Heaven is certain, but it’s the last portion of shared information that sticks with her and answers just one of her many questions. One that is near the top of the importance list.
“Two days?” She breathes, realizing only then on top of administering information as the nurses inspected her, he was also asking her a set of basic questions she’d apparently answered in the midst of growing internal panic. “I—I’ve been out for two days?”
Shelia, standing closely, hand on the railing of the hospital bed, opens her mouth to speak but is interrupted by her daughter once more as another realization returns to Heaven.
“Macy….we—we’re supposed—supposed to know—” She shakes her head, ignoring the rising level of physical pain and discomfort in her body and face as certain facial motions evoke a stinging, throbbing sensation in her cheek. “Where’s Macy!”
Because Heaven remembers. Recalls the conversation with Macy’s medical team. If she’s been unconscious for two days now, then that means it’s either time or close to the time where they should have a better understanding of Macy’s status.
If she sustained any brain damage.
And if so….how severe.
Determination and resilience sometimes result in success, as is the case when Heaven finally manages to sway the doctor. Her mother’s cosign in the form of a whispered statement to the doctor also being a helpful additive. If the situation were different, Heaven would perhaps press on what was said, but it’s inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.
The only thing that Heaven cares about, the only thing that matters, is seeing her baby girl.
That’s it.
It’s what remains the constant in the back, front, and all over her mind as she’s helped out of the bed and into a wheelchair that’s brought in a few minutes later. The journey from her room to the pediatric ward of the ICU includes the accompanying of her mother, two nurses, one who pushes her in the wheelchair and the other who guides the IV pole. Assisted ambulation eventually guiding Heaven to her destination.
Energy shifts the minute she’s wheeled into the room as if making way and place for her arrival. Dread rebuilds and returns with a startling vengeance as the discomfort that’s floated through her body in a variety of ways since her return to consciousness is no longer germane in place of a greater calamity. The room, roughly the same size as the one she was excerpted from, suddenly feels so much smaller with the congregation of bodies. White coats. Scrubs. Machines galore making the same sounds she awoke to. All surrounding the bed to where the only thing she can make out is the thin, white sheets, faint outline of short legs, and slightly elevated feet. Hushed whispers and a set of eyes that land on her, wearing a variety of expressions. But it’s two in particular that capture her focus longer than the rest, that briefly distract her from attempts to obtain a better view of her baby.
“Heaven….”
Roman is the first to speak, Nathan only a few feet away, but Heaven locks gazes with the elder of the two, and her stomach twists into an abundance of knots. Flashes of their last interaction—the hotel, Jey, the gun—once more another flood of memories. Ones that she briefly remembered when she came to but shoved aside for the sake of her child. But only a few feet away from the man whose last statements to her were ones of disgust and hurt is another story. She can’t look way nor can she ignore how…..tired exhausted he looks. Deep, dark bags under his eyes. Frizzy hair lazily pulled back unlike the neat but he’s always ensured to perfect before leaving the house. Even his attire, the wrinkled fabric of his shirt and sweat pants, visibly thrown on in haste and with little regard for appearance, it’s so….unlike him. But it makes all the sense.
He’s exhausted. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. Truth be told, Heaven wouldn’t be surprised if he’s simply a reflection of herself with marginal differences.
Roman steps forward as Heaven squeezes her mom’s hand and holds onto the nurses forearm with her other hand while they help her to her feet. He gaze flicks between the two of them, unspoken communication as she naturally reaches for him, fingers snapping around his forearm. She swallows, an array of words needing to be spoken, truthful, honest communication never having a more appropriate time to be had. But once more, it’s a necessity that must be shoved to the back burner.
Her eyes water as he lifts one hand to her face that Heaven is almost certain must be slightly swollen, on top of bruised, given the flashes of intermittent pain that accompany her speech. “Macy…”
He mimics her motion, a prominent bulge and disappearance in the middle of his neck. “They’re about to wean her sedation to see….”
His inability to continue is all the answer she needs.
Heaven can’t allow herself to think about the reason why for his difficulty in completing his answer.
She motions with her chin towards the bed where Macy lays, offering a small smile to her nephew who simply returns the gesture with a small nod and a flash of regret in his warm eyes. Heaven recalls her last interaction with him, too, and mentally adds him to the list of people she needs to speak with.
Just one of many. But as Roman assists her to Macy’s bedside, her mom and the nurse guiding her IV pole close behind, the emotion that was already brewing reaches its boiling point.
A sharp intake of breath when she looks down at her baby girl, eyes closed, face still scuffed up, arm still wrapped, far too many wires connected to her. Far too many medical personnel surrounding her. She shouldn’t be here. In this bed. In this sterile room. In this situation.
This should have never happened.
“Mrs.—”
“Heaven,” she corrects, hand trembling as she reaches to stroke Macy’s cheek before flitting her gaze to the doctor. “It’s just Heaven.”
He nods before offering a gentle explanation as to the steps seconds away from commencing. Similair to what Roman said, just verbalized in a mixture of medical and regular terminology. But it’s when the actions are initiated that Heaven’s chest feels like it’s about to cave in on itself. Seconds that feel as if they’re being stretched into hours. Announcement of each task accompanied by Heaven’s grip on Roman’s forearm tightening, her eyes, as well as his, never once leaving Macy’s peaceful expression.
They’re paralyzed and frozen in time waiting and watching with a shared level of trepidation mingled in with burning hope.
Because in that moment, it’s all they have.
“Macy,” Heaven whispers, stomach clenching as she works to find her voice. It doesn’t matter that Macy’s hair, pulled back and tucked under her head, reveal the absence of her hearing aids. Heaven isn’t speaking to Macy for her to hear. She’s speaking to Macy for her to feel. “Baby, you gotta wake up. Mommy…mommy and daddy are here waiting for you.” Though her focus is on her child, her eyesight doesn’t need to be set on the man beside her to know that he has a visible reaction to her words. Barely an hour out of her own sedation, Heaven also doesn’t need to have regained control of all her faculties to know that this is the first time she’s ever openly referred to him as such.
As Macy’s father.
She continues, ignoring the pain from her shoulder as she bends over, the arm of the bed digging into her stomach. “I came back for you, May May.” Her voice cracks. “Now I need you to come back for me.”
Another reaction to poignant words, from both her lover and mother, are lost in the sea of irrelevance at the sight of something. Subtle. So so subtle and minimal that Heaven is partially surprised she can make it out through her blurred vision. And for a moment, she questions herself. Questions if her desire is overpowering her sense.
And then it happens again.
That same motion with increased visibility that’s caught by others as well, Roman’s deep voice whispering from beside her.
“Macy?”
Once more, voices are drowned out as Heaven feels the weight in her stomach dropping and caving when visible progression results into fluttering. Macy’s eyes begin to flutter, each motion evoking sounds from around but none more than her parents who stand her bedside.
“Macy?” Heaven cries and watches as her little girls eyelids fully lift and remain open, granting the room with a set of soft brown eyes that haven’t been seen in almost three days. Heaven has to grip Roman’s arm once more to keep from fainting. The shock of her awaking temporarily halts what would be the most logical next step for her parents as the doctor says something that's lost in the midst of endless relief.
Her lips press together, lines creasing in her forward, the faintest hint of a scowl similar to that of when she’s awoken premature from a nap. Confused. She looks confused, and understandably so.
But as a nurse begins to sign what would be the start of a basic line of questioning, Macy’s eyes instead flick to the left where her teary eyed parents stand beside her overcome with joy.
Joy so overwhelming that Heaven can barely make out what Roman says as he shifts just enough to lean over and kiss Macy’s forehead. But it doesn’t stop her, nor him, from following the length of Macy’s non injured arm as her fingers flex. Similar, small baby steps that lead up to the way she lifts her arms just enough to sign with her hands. Slow, laggard movements, tension in her fingers from days of non-movement causing her to take longer than usual, but the result is so so worth it.
Mommy
Another heartfelt sob erupts from Heaven’s mouth right as Macy’s eyes shift to the left, to Roman, and her fingers makes a different motion. Her fingers move a smidge quicker than before.
Daddy
Heaven places her hand over her heart, issuing an abundance of silent prayers as the tension of the room immediately melts away to make way for immense gratitude. If not for the vast amount of relief felt at Macy awake and coherent, perhaps Heaven would have focused more on it. Sensed the swell of emotion from beside her at Macy's acknowledgement.
The acknoweldgment of her father.
Her real father.
But it’s the final signing she does that allow humor to mingle in with gratefulness.
Cookie.
Only then as several of the adults in room break into light laughter does Heaven start to tune back into the conversations at hand. The nurse who was signing with Macy cracks a small, meaningful smile. She talks while signing. “I definitely think we can see about getting you some cookies, sweetie.”
At that, Roman clears his throat, still caressing the top of Macy’s head as Heaven reaches for her hand. “No. It’s….it’s her stuffed animal.”
“She doesn’t go anywhere without it,” Heaven finishes. Nathan and her mother move closer, attempting to interact with Macy whose hands have returned to her side, her expression unchanged. But the mere fact that Heaven is looking into her baby girl’s open eyes instead of them closed and indicating an outcome from the worst sort of nightmare is more than enough for her.
The doctor begins to task the nurse with signing a set of basic questions for Macy, most of which, Heaven is sure, is standard protocol. Most likely to gauge her level of awareness, though her being able to identify her parents is more than enough for Heaven.
Macy simply being awake is more than enough for Heaven.
With everything transpiring, the array of voices filling the room that’s suddenly far less morose than when she initially entered, Heaven is moderately surprised when she overhears a set of footsteps. Perhaps it’s the almost rushed pace, or maybe it’s the lingering essence of always being daddy’s little girl that has her turn around to see her father enter. But it’s the way he stands closer to the door, away from Macy’s bedside and how he beckons over her mother that gives Heaven pause. Especially when she watches the way her mother’s smile dips and transitions into a confused frown as she walks over.
Her attention is especially secured when her father angles his and Shelia’s body away, not once seeming to pay attention to the fact that Macy, his only grandchild, is awake. Ignoring her is one thing, but Macy?
Concern spikes, however, when, even without seeing their faces, Heaven can infer from their tense postures that something….something is wrong.
That nagging, uncomfortable feeling dancing up her spine as she speaks up. “What is it?”
And the feeling intensifies when her parents turn to her and cook up the quickest, most insincere “nothing” that she shoots down immediately. “What is it?”
Shelia presses her lips together. “Heaven.”
“Tell me.”
Heaven doesn’t intend to raise her voice as much as she does. She especially doesn’t intend to snatch away the focus from Macy via Nathan and Roman’s confused expressions, but Macy’s lack of her hearing aids leave her oblivious to the conversation at hand.
Thus, Heaven pushing once more. Something in the base of her stomach tells her that she needs to. That she can’t and shouldn’t accept whatever excuse or lie her parents want to feed her for the sake of avoiding whatever fallout the truth may carry with it.
That’s what caused all this mess in the first place.
But the truth that’s disclosed is a truth she could have never anticipated.
“They found him,” her father answers. “They found Jey.”
Something about hearing his name sends chills up Heaven’s spine. Evokes a myriad emotions. Anger dominating them all. But the anger is shoved aside in favor of clarification. “What—what do you mean they found him?”
Heaven remembers Jey attacking her. Recalls the struggle for the gun. Everything after that is nothing more than a blank page, but in her mind, Jey should be locked up somewhere. He attacked her. Tried to kill her. Almost killed her daughter.
He should be buried under that damn jail.
“He went on the run after….” Shelia trails off, her husband taking her hand as he offers a small nod.
“They located him though. Received an anonymous tip,” he continues. The pause, however, increases Heaven’s anxiety. The omission of what she would guess is a key piece of information having her press once more.
“What—”
“He was shot, Heaven,” he finally answers, voice void of any emotions and the concern in his eyes undoubtedly reserved for her and Macy. But primarily her and having to share such jarring news. “They found him unconscious. Beaten and shot. He’s apparently in critical condition. It doesn't look good. They don’t think he's going to—”
She’s unsure if it’s the way she turns her head away, staring at the ground, working to process the information, that makes her father pause in his explanation. Most likely. It’s certainly not from being choked up or holding any ounce of remorse or grief.
Jey’s sins are far too great and grave for her to extend any sort of compassion. Empathy has limitations, and Jey reached his the moment he left her daughter in their burning home. Perhaps the shock of what occurred has her in a state of emotional paralysis, but him attacking her, trying to kill her, isn’t even what drives her fury with him. It’s Macy. His crimes against Macy are unforgivable.
Though lack of empathy doesn’t deprive her brain from springing out several thoughts, most of which circle around a single word.
Who.
Who attacked Jey?
It’s an unasked question, however, that still has little to no emotion attached to it.
Nothing that Heaven actually feels. Truth be told, she’s not exactly sure what she feels. At least not until she happens to look behind her, wanting to ensure that Macy, though not physically possible, has not overheard news Heaven hasn’t the slightest idea how she’s going to break to her sweet little girl.
Especially if….
But it’s halted when two other expressions snag her focus.
Roman and Nathan. Twins in so many different ways, their personalities and dispositions almost identical. The first few seconds reveal brief, minor distinctions that, if not for how well she knows both father and son, she could have easily missed. The subtle tick of Roman’s jaw and motion of his bushy brows, weary eyes flashing with something unidentifiable. Similarly, there’s a discreet rise and fall of Nathan's shoulders followed by his mouth shifting before his expression lands in the same place as his father’s. Identical, nonchalant, calm, stoic look on their faces. And while she certainly wouldn’t expect either to emote any sort of despair or sorrow, it’s the lack of something she would expect to see that makes her still.
Shock.
They don’t….they don’t look shocked.
Not even a little.
And there’s something unsettling about that for completely different reason. Something that has her stomach in knots and spurns widespread disquiet. “What—“
An interrupted, unasked question lost in the midst of another sound inserted into the commotion of the room, voices layered over one another, but that consternated tone overpowering the rest.
“Macy?”
Her daughter’s name being called is what forces Heaven to return her focus to her child, the sight of which immediately makes her stomach churn.
“Macy.”
Macy doesn’t respond though, and her silence isn’t due to the lack of her hearing aids and thus inability to hear. It’s because of the sudden, jerking motions of her body as medical staff swarm around her right as several of the machines connected to her baby start alarming loudly and frantic, some slow and intermittent, some speedily and with urgency that matches that of the team around her.
“She’s seizing.”
“Her oxygen is dropping.”
“She’s coding.”
“Clear the room now!”
All sentences that whip past Heaven as she attempts to close the distance between her and her innocent baby, the view completely obscured by scrubs and a white coat. Arms and hands moving and reaching with purpose and necessity, some of which, however, serve as barriers.
“Macy!”
It’s an out-of-body experience, the heartfelt sound of her baby’s name ripped from her mouth. From Roman’s. Both of them being restrained and forced away from a scene neither can look away from. Their efforts valiant and without respite, even as Heaven feels the sharp pain of the IV ripping out from her arm what with her desperate flailing and swinging of her arms against the nurses holding her back. Her and Roman's voice nothing but heartbreaking echoes of the deepest sort of terror as they scream for their child.
“MACY!”
And similar to the same sight that haunted her that night, as she once more poured every ounce of energy in her body to get to her daughter, Heaven. continues to push. As does Roman. They continue to fight and resist. Tenacity undeterred as the cacophony of noise is usurped by a single, continuous, uninterrupted sound.
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