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 momentarily 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.
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.
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 momentarily 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.
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒𑁤 love runs deep, but sometimes the pain runs deeper. and sometimes....it's irreparable.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𑁤 angst.
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒𑁤 six thousand, five hundred, and some change (6k+)
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𑁤 roman reigns x black!oc
𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𑁤 graphic and dividers by me.
𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐎𑁤 ❝mirror❞ by justin timberlake
𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𑁤 be sure to have read part one, never be the same and part two, say something, before reading this.
“And that’s the problem!” He shouts, either too deeply embedded into his own feelings to notice the way Solana jumps at his volume or perhaps, in this rare moment, he’s just uncaring. “That’s always been the fucking problem.” Roman punches his hand into his open fist to accompany each perfectly enunciated, sharp word, further emphasizing his frustration. “We’ve been stuck in this goddamn cycle for over twenty years now, and at this point, I don’t know how we break it.” But the frustration collapses with the slump of his shoulders and dip of his lips into a deep frown. “Or if it’s already broke us.”
Gail immediately refocuses on Solana, unsurprised to see her body language mimics that of her husband with the additive of the silent tears that stream down her face. Shoulders also slumped, mouth opening and closing as she struggles to verbalize what Gail knows must crush her to say aloud.
“Feels pretty broken to me.”
The silence is deafening.
Lita casts a quick glance between the two of them, leaned forward as she lowers her voice.
“Okay, there’s a lot—”
“I can’t do this right now,” Roman murmurs. Two set of eyes flick in his direction as he stands, turning in the opposite direction of Solana who remains seated, eyes shut, the tears continuing to fall.
“Roman—“
The last minute attempt to convince him to stay is a failed one. The door shutting behind him with a softness that contrasts everything that just occurred and remains in the small room that suddenly feels overwhelming with an influx of emotions.
“He’s done,” Solana whispers. Gail starts to move to reach and place her hand over Solana’s, but the other woman shakes her head. A one shoulder shrug and the saddest smile that’s ever graced someone’s face. “We’re done.”
“I’m getting really worried.”
Leya’s whispered confession draws the focus of her siblings. Her eyes remain down on her lap, on the intricate design of the pillow that she has hugged against her chest. It’s a sort of therapeutic technique she learned a long time ago. When she was younger and her OCD was the worst it’s ever been. Brie would instruct her to hold a pillow close to her chest, holding and squeezing it while taking deep breaths, pretending that the combination and eventual release of her breath and the tension in her body represented the “bad thoughts” being released.
It was helpful. Very helpful in some cases.
But right now, it’s not doing much.
“He’s still not back home,” Nic adds, frown deepening. His eyes flick around the room, his jaw shifting in the same way their dad's does when he's in the midst of thought, working and mulling over scenarios in real time while still maintaining verbal communication. “And he and mom are talking less and less.”
“Not even that,” Aria speaks up, looking among her brothers and sisters. Like once before, she sits only a few inches away from Leya. A symbolic seating of sorts considering they are two of the few siblings who still live at home. All for obvious reasons, whether it be them still being minors or situations like Leya where it just makes since given her having RJ. But their residing in the home also means that they've been granted a front row seat to the tension that's marred their family home over the past few weeks. “You could….you could tell they were upset with each other before, but now…now they don’t even seem angry anymore. They just seem….sad.”
It’s a shared sentiment among the older of the Reigns kids. Even Aroha, on the verge of her twelfth birthday, has pressed her siblings for questions regarding their parents obvious conflict. Both Aria and Leya have done their best to answer without answering, but Aroha isn't the baby of the family anymore with a limited ability to understand what's going on. She knows that something is very wrong, and there's only so many different ways they can dodge the obvious before she becomes aware of how dire the situation is.
Soon enough, Aubrey, Tavita, and RJ will be the only ones spared from the glaring realization that something is definitely, deeply wrong.
The kids were hoping that the joint therapy session Aria saw on her dad’s calendar when updating his phone for him would be the thing that did it. That helped their parents get through or over this hurdle that they’ve seemingly encountered.
But the evening of said session, Solana returned home alone. Roman didn't walk into the front door until they were setting the table for dinner, and Koa and Kai were feeding the pets.
And once all the younger kids were down for bed, Leya checked the camera app on her phone to see her dad climb into one of the family's many cars, start it up, and drive off.
She must have stared at the empty spot where the car once sat for a good ten minutes. At least until the image was blurred and distorted by the tears that were burning her eyes.
The displeasure of having a front row seat from the moment this all began, when her mom marched into the home carrying with her an energy that would change everything, has meant that Leya has, in many ways, been affected the most by it all. Lost in the chaos of a storm that has no visible end in sight and leaves in its wake destruction that's gradually starting to feel irreparable with each passing day of no reconciliation in sight.
For her and all of the rest of her siblings outside of the OG's 2.0, it’s been the most fucking uncomfortable thing ever. When the rough patch hit years prior, there were at least attempts to feign and maintain the role of a happy couple. Their efforts were not without the holes that the older kids were able to spot plain as day, but the fact that their parents at least tried to pretend that everything was fine, for the sake of not wanting to worry their kids, meant something.
But this isn't then.
Their parents aren’t even trying to force or fake shit. They’re just….there.
“I briefly overheard them talking last night—”
“Really?” It’s the most hopeful Leya has felt and sounded since they all arrived at Lina’s place, needing the space to speak and talk freely without Aroha or their parents overhearing. “What—what did they say?”
Koa shakes his head. His foot taps against the floor, his fingers also moving in rhythmic patterns against his knee. “I couldn’t make out all of it, but something about waiting until after Aroha’s birthday—”
“Waiting for what?”
Kai fixes his gaze on Lina. “He just said he couldn’t make it out.”
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
“Guys,” Tama’s deep voice cuts through what’s sure to be a part two from the last time they gathered together, except this time, he’s not about to let things get as far as they did before. He wasn't for it then, and he damn sure isn't for it now. Things were just bad then, but they're significantly worse now, and that's saying something. “Stop it. Now.”
“What if it’s happening this time?” Leya whispers. To herself. Maybe her siblings. She’s not sure. She just knows the sensation of her eyes burning is followed up with a wet feeling against her cheeks. “What if…what if they’re getting a divorced?”
“No way.” Nic's rebuff is quick and sharp. His voice drops an octave, deepening in the way almost all of the boys' voices do when they're irritated or uncomfortable. Again, just like their dad. “No one loves each other more than mom and dad.”
“Certainly doesn’t feel that way anymore.”
“Koa!”
“What?” He snaps, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s been over two weeks, and things aren’t getting any better. They’re only getting worse.”
“I can’t believe he had a stroke and didn’t tell mommy,” Lina voices what she’s been wondering since her sister broke the shocking, alarming news. “They tell each other everything.”
“Not this,” Kai mutters.
Tama starts to check his younger brother once more but opts to try to keep the conversation focused and on topic. “He probably didn’t want to worry her—”
“He’s done a great job with that.”
“Sissy,” Leya sighs. Lina looks at her twin, the solemn expression on a face that’s hers but also not making her shoulders drop. “Sorry,” she murmurs. “I just—” She swallows, eyes growing watery. “This can’t be happening. Mommy and daddy are soulmates. They can’t—they can’t get divorced.” She looks around the room, a sense of helplessness that’s foreign and suffocating. “They still love each other. I know they do.”
Lina has always been the problem solver of her siblings. Tama as well, but the final say has always been run past her. It’s always been her gift in life. A gift she inherited from her father. Underneath an often rough, tough exterior is a problem solving brain that is typically the source of countless, possible solutions.
But she sits among her brothers and sisters, stunned and damned to the silence that represents failure.
She can’t solve this.
Doesn’t know how.
Her words, however, trigger something within Aria. She lifts her head, slowly, mouthing something to herself. It’s faint and low but heard and noticed by Leya who looks at her with glossy eyes.
“What is it?”
The question manages to temporarily relieve the rest of kids from the depressing realization that the life they’ve always known, loved, and appreciated might be on the path of change.
And not the good type.
Samaria licks her lips, looking around the room, her gaze settling on Tama and Lina.
“I think I have an idea.”
————
The sound of the front door slamming and the soles of her foot slapping against the wooden floor serve as blurred background noise. Everything outside of racing thoughts, most of which were intrusive in nature, have clouded up her headspace. Ever since her phone lit up as she was in the midst of vacuuming out the OG's 2.0 playroom and saw a text from her eldest son. Simple in nature. Heavy in meaning.
We need you.
Solana was out the door in under twenty minutes. The short distance from the Reigns estate and the home of her eldest two children has never felt so far away as she sped through traffic, uncaring of any laws being broken in the process.
All she could think about was the fact that it was rare for her son to send such a short, non-descriptive message. Even more, especially since he moved out, Tama has always preferred to talk over text. At least with her.
So Solana knew that something had to be very wrong, hence the urgency that guided her movements and relentless efforts to make it to her babies.
Except the minute she rounds the entryway and heads for the living room, calls for her son and daughter left unanswered, worry is swapped for something else.
Shock.
Emerging from the kitchen, most likely through the backdoor entrance off said kitchen, Solana stands across from the man she's barely spoken more than ten words to over the past several days.
Roman.
His expression, she's certain, mirrors hers. He eyes her skeptically before his mouth settles into a line and her own mouth parts once and then twice before she manages to speak.
"What—what are you doing here?"
Though the minute it comes out, she immediately both regrets and answers her own question. If Tama reached out to her because something is wrong, of course he'd reach out to his dad as well.
Roman must realize this, too, as his answer never comes, or rather it's intercepted by the sound of footsteps as she turns around to see several of her oldest children. Tama is included in said group, but the expression on his face, on all of their faces, doesn't indicate a level or urgency.
It indicates….anxiety.
Like they're nervous about something.
Roman finally breaks his silence, voicing what Solana is thinking. "What's going on?"
Lina steps forward, her siblings eyes fixed onto her as she motions with her arm to the living room. "Please. Sit." She leans to the side just enough to ensure locking eyes with her father. "Daddy, you too."
And just like that, the concern about what had happened shifts to what's about to happen. Solana, however, would like to believe that her kids wouldn't have called both herself and Roman over here for nothing. So instead of pushing back the way she wants to, she silently walks into the living room, placing her purse on the space beside her.
Roman follows suit, sitting across the way, of course.
Though she understands it and prefers it, she also hates it. As upset and angry and hurt and everything else as she is towards and with her husband, it hasn't dulled the wound in her chest that's been birthed and only grown day after day since this all went down.
"Kids." Solana turns to see Roman is focused on their children who've also joined them in the living room, lined up almost in front of the television. Lina. Leya. Tama. Aria. Nic. "I'm not gon' ask again."
As much as Solana dislikes the almost irritated tone he's taken with them, the question is valid. Though she has a feeling she's not going to like the answer any more than he will.
Tama takes a deep breath and stuffs his hands in the pockets of his dark jeans. "Look, we know….we know you guys aren't in a good place right now."
Solana shuts her eyes. Her suspicions have now turned into confirmations.
"Tam—"
"And we know that you've always told us to stay out of it," Lina cuts in, the only one in the group other than Tama, that would have the balls to interrupt Roman like that. "That your marriage is none of our business and between the two of you."
Solana licks her lips, gradually willing her eyes open. "Lin—"
"But whatever is happening between you guys right now is affecting all of us," Nic's additive does nothing more than increase that weight on Solana's chest. She's not stupid. As much as she would like to believe she and Roman have done their best to not allow their situation to impact the kids, that's just not a feasible nor realistic expectation. With the exception of Aubrey and Tavita, Solana knows her children well enough to know they inherited their father's discernment.
They can see what doesn't need to be stated.
Aria takes another deep breath as she takes over for her brother." We know something is wrong, and we love you both too much to sit back and do nothing."
Solana doesn't need to be looking at her husband to see the way his jaw shifts and moves as he works to find the right, best words. “Samaria—”
“Please,” Leya cuts in, stepping forward, lips pressed together as her parents focus on her. “For…for us.”
It’s a bit of a cruel string to pull. A manipulation tactic if not for who it was to evoke it.
The only thing that neither Solana nor Roman can ever say no to.
When it comes to their kids, it’s always a yes.
It’s why, despite them sitting on opposite sofas—Solana on the one facing the TV and Roman on the one adjacent to the TV—they're on the same page for a first time in a long time.
Aria is the one to walk over to them, breaking from her brothers and sisters. “We know that we’re obviously biased since we’re your kids. Not to mention it’s not really our place, but we thought....” She stops, looking over at someone else to take over as she grabs the remote, setting up the television, the emotion in her voice indicative of her struggle. “We thought maybe if you hear it from someone other than us, it’ll help you remember.”
Solana shifts on the sofa, hating the way she struggles to maintain her volume. Indication and reminders of her immense difficulty over the past two weeks in trying to keep it all together. “Remember what?”
Lina is the one to handle the question, the final one, as the kids start to spill out the room.
“That you’re RoSo.”
The term makes both husband and wife still. But whatever is felt from hearing something that carries so much history and weight is redirected when music starts to play. A song she recognizes almost instantly.
Aren't you somethin' to admire?
'Cause your shine is somethin' like a mirror
And I can't help but notice
You reflect in this heart of mine
The dark screen lights up, cursive black font set against a white backdrop.
RoSo
Solana’s hand drops to her stomach at the transition to Dwayne and Matteo, clearly at the Warehouse, in the midst of a workout. The music remains playing in the background at a lower volume to accommodate the sounds of the interviewees.
“Uncle Dwayne. Uncle Teo.” Tama’s voice is loud and clear, confirming he’s the one filming the two men who stand with light sheen of sweat splayed across their forehead, hands on their waist. “What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you think of RoSo?”
Dwayne chuckles, looking at Matteo. “You wanna go first, Fabio?”
Matteo casts a wry smile and glances at the camera. “That’s easy.” He shrugs. “Love.”
Roman’s jaw clenches.
“Fucker stole my answer,” Dwayne curses, also looking at the camera. “But like he said, love. Unlike anything I’ve ever seen, either.”
The clips switches as a smiling Afia and Bayley stand next to each other. Like the men, dressed in workout/training attire and clearly at the Warehouse but caught right before the beginning of their sparring session.
“Tias.” It’s Lina’s voice this time as she presents the same question as her brother. “What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you think of RoSo?”
Bayley scoffs. “Douche, but that only applies to the first half.”
Afia lightly slaps Bayley on the arm, shaking her head before taking a soft breath. Her pretty eyes flick upward, narrowing slightly in the way she does when in deep thought. “Soulmates.”
“As much as I hate to say anything remotely good about your irritating ass dad, she’s right.” Bayley feigns an over-dramatic sigh before her mouth settles into a small, genuine smile. “Soulmates for sure.”
'Cause I don't wanna lose you now
I'm lookin' right at the other half of me
The vacancy that sat in my heart
Is a space that now you hold
Another transition to another clip that reveals Cameron, Melina, and Mickie, also at the Warehouse, which instantly has Solana convinced that the kids must have asked everyone to meet them there.
That faction of Solana’s friend group only attends the Warehouse for fight nights and major matches, primarily when Roman is fighting, and even then, they’re more there for her than for the actual fights.
And just like the last two times, the same question is presented, but the timbre of Nic’s deep voice is heard instead of Lina’s much lighter, softer one. Mickie is the first to answer in the way that only Mickie would.
“Hot.”
Nic’s exasperated sigh makes Solana smile. “Aunt Mickie.”
Cameron, however, quickly jumps in with her own answer accompanied by a soft smile. “Inspiring.”
Melina casts her a sideways glance, playfully nudging her. “You make them sound like motivational speakers.”
She shrugs, pushing her braids back over her shoulder. “I mean, Solana kind of is.”
It’s hard for Solana to pinpoint exactly what part of what she’s watching affects and impacts her the most. The words. The participants. The effort her children have clearly put in to make all this happen, and in such a short period of time, it seems. Each compliment, however, seems to do something to her. Lessens just a little bit the weight she’s carried with her nonstop the past two weeks.
But she's tuned back in, resisting the desire to look over at Roman who’s also watched quietly thus far, as Mickie makes a ‘pfft’ sound. “Roman isn’t.” She rolls her eyes, lifting her hand to examine her nails. “He’s the meanest person I know.”
“Mickie,” Melina mutters, gesturing to the camera. “That’s his dad.”
“Oh my God, it’s not a secret. Literally everyone knows Roman is mean.” She throws her hands up, looking away, gasping. “Here. You.”
Confusion dwells as the footage becomes shaky before the camera refocuses on an unfamiliar face, but he wears a solid black shirt with a familiar, red insignia on the right side, just above his pectoral muscles.
Bloodline.
However, Solana’s guess would be he’s not of the…..field type. Perhaps something related to tech. Slim build, greasy hair, some strings clinging to his forehead, and the way he pushes his thick rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose as well as the overall startled expression all but confirm it.
There are numerous positions available throughout the Bloodline, and despite popular misconception, not all of them require the ability to maim and kill. There are many other roles that need fulfilling, some of which include sitting behind a desk.
This man is clearly a desk type.
“What’s your name?” Mickie asks but immediately waves away as if physically pushing her initial query to the side in place of what’s most relevant. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Isn’t Roman Reigns an asshole?”
“Mickie!”
Another smile appears on Solana’s face as the nervous expression on the man’s swiftly morphs into something of horror. His widened eyes and dilated pupils magnified 10x over.
“The—the Tribal Chief?” His eyes switch to the camera, slightly above the frame, which Solana would guess is him realizing just who is holding said camera. He gulps. “No. N—no. The—the Tribal Chief is a great man—”
“Okay, that’s enough.” A quiet laugh actually spills over when Mickie literally shoves the man away, prompting outcry from Cameron and Melina. “See, even strangers are afraid of him. Why?” She mouths she word, sound absent but lips easily readable. “Asshole.”
“Ignore her.” Solana watches Melina shake her head when Nic refocuses the camera on her, and even before she can fix her mouth to say it, Solana just knows. Can tell by the gleam in her eyes what the answer is.
“Amor.”
Love.
Additional clips interviewing closest family and friends continue to flash across the screen, but Solana feels frozen in place and time from that word. A word that so deeply encompasses so much of her life. Of her relationship.
Carved into her, metaphorically and physically. The latter of the two further emphasized when she realizes her hand is placed against her chest, fingers covering the black and red ink near her clavicle.
Her tattoo.
The one she got for Roman.
For them.
She swallows, emotion continuing to build as the lyrics burn into her soul.
Show me how to fight for now
And I'll tell you, baby, it was easy
Comin' back here to you once I figured it out
You were right here all along.
Except the emotion only extrapolates when unexpected participants fill up the flat screen TV.
Aubrey, Tavita, and RJ are sitting at the table she recognizes from being the one in their shared playroom. Naturally, all three are wiggly, but only Aubrey is smiling happily. RJ and Tavita instead carry pouts and scowls that remind her so much of….of Roman.
Roman
“Okay, guys—”
Koa’s voice is cut off by a whining, pouting Aubrey as she reaches up with her arms. Tavita and RJ present a question Solana can’t entirely make out. “Can you hold me?”
A heavy sigh makes her chuckle as she wipes at her eyes. Koa offers, in the nicest voice he can, she’s certain, a delayed acceptance. “After, Aubrey.”
Kai’s irritated voice sounds from elsewhere, most likely behind Koa, with his arms crossed and frustration written all over his face. Neither of her twin boys have ever been very good with….little kids. “Why does she always want to be held?”
“I don’t think she knows how to use her legs.”
“Leave her alone. She’s only three.” Aria snaps, and it causes the tears to spill over at a faster, heavier rate. All the kids. All of her kids partook in this, the older ones handling the filming with her younger kids partaking in the answering portion. Hence why she would guess this interviewing of the OG’s 2.0 would be the last set. “And would you two shut up? I don’t want to have to edit this out.”
“Guys.” Kai cuts in, forever the one to keep everyone focused. “Do you know what RoSo is?”
It’s a shared answer with a loud “yeah!” coming from all three.
“Who is RoSo?”
Again, another joint answer, naturally, RJ’s answer differing from that of his technical aunt and uncle.
“Mommy and daddy!”
“Grandpa and abuela!”
Solana sniffles, smiling at the kids’ enthusiastic replies, Aubrey clapping happily. And for the first time since the start of the video, Solana’s eyes drift over to the other side of the room where Roman sits on the edge of the sofa. Leaned over, his hands fisted together over his mouth, brows furrowed and and focused on the screen with the same level of intensity and intrigue that’s sat with her from the moment the video started.
It makes her heart swell.
“That’s right.” Aria giggles and gasps dramatically. “And how do you feel about RoSo?” A beat. “Do you guys love RoSo?”
That final question, however is what really evokes the biggest smile, laughs, and glee from the children with a loud, unanimous “yes!”
The timing is synced perfectly, it seems, as the final refrain begins and all of the clips fill the screen, one by one, sounds muted to allow the music to play louder and without interruption. But it’s when the post-chorus begins that Solana nearly loses it.
“Oh my God.”
Clips of herself and Roman.
From their wedding in Mexico shortly before the girls were born. Solana smiling and holding onto his arm.
Several from their vow renewal ceremonies over the year.
Her dancing playfully as he spins her around and tugs her against him, craning his head down to kiss her shoulder, her own over his forearm. Smiling.
Them in the pool, him holding her as she smiles down and kisses him. Right before he squeezes her ass under the water, prompting her to gasp and swat at his shoulder.
Of her in the kitchen cooking and him sneaking up to hug her from behind. Her hand over her chest, smile on her face and head tilted back to cradle the back of his head as he kisses her.
Roman sitting at the table talking to the kids, giving them one of his many lectures, hand gestures and all. Solana behind him, nodding and playfully mimicking his non-verbals. The amused smile on Leya’s face giving her away as Roman turns to look at her. Her expression immediately dropping, eyes widening with faux innocence. Lighthearted mockery veiled by her quickly kissing his temple and darting away.
Them on the beach, her giggling and attempting to run only for his long legs to easily allow him to catch her. Though the original audio is muted to allow for Timberlake's volalization, Solana can hear her laughter through the screen as he picks her up and spins her back around.
Hospital footage from several of the kids’ births. Roman sitting at the edge of the hospital bed, holding their baby, her peering over his shoulder.
Him holding her against him as she leaned her forehead into his chest, squeezing his arms while he swayed gently with her to ease the pain and discomfort from her contractions.
Her standing between his open legs, comb in hand as she parted his hair while saying something to the kids only to jump when his hands lifted to her waist, clearly squeezing playfully. The smile on her face as she looked down and captured a kiss before gently tugging at his beard before resuming.
Roman's head back, lips slightly parted as she was curled into him, hand on his chest. On the family's private jet, clearly on the way home from one of their vacations. Both of their eyes shut as they stole a rare moment of the peace and quiet needed for a quick nap.
So many clips.
So many stolen moments, some of which, she hadn't even realized her kids captured on video.
So many memories.
By the time, it’s finished, Solana can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t anything. She’s overwhelmed and filled with an abundance of unnamed entities that have her heart heavy, her stomach tight, and her hand over her chest. It’s a trick of the mind, she’s certain, but she can almost feel the thud of her heart against her shaky palm. Her eyes burn and jaw trembles. It’s only as the sight ahead of her becomes blurry and the weight travels down to her legs that she has to move.
Has to find escape, her legs carrying her out of the living room and to the back of the townhouse, through the kitchen and out the back sliding door.
Her vision remains disrupted, big gasps of breath taken to inhale as much of the fresh air as she can handle, but it’s a shaky process. Her inability to regulate her breathing fueled by the sob making its way up the back of her throat. She continues to walk, feet carrying her into the patch of grass the outlines the patio and recently uncovered pool.
The same grass that cushions her knees when she falls to the ground, one hand over stomach, the other covering her mouth as the sob finally breaks through the surface. She’s doubled over, emotions overflowing and manifesting in the way she wails loudly. Intermittent gasps and sharp intakes of breaths as crying battles with the crippling somatic sensations that feel an awful like the early stages of a panic attack.
It most likely is one, too.
It’d be the third one she’s had over the past week.
But new sensations, different yet familiar, gradually seep in and manage to de-escalate. A gentle touch, fingers grazing against her arms. A gentle tug that has her back against against something firm but soothing as the hands shift to where solid, strong arms circle her waist. Solana’s hands naturally fall on Roman’s forearms that secure and lock her to him.
It makes her stomach twist tighter and tears fall harder.
Neither stop her, however, from uttering the first real, authentic words to him since their disastrous therapy session. Any interactions and conversations since then have been forced, fake, and inauthentic.
There’s nothing inauthentic about the heartbroken words that she manages to force out in between gut wrenching crying. “I’m sor—I’m sor—”
“Sol—”
“We’ve—we’ve built a life t—together.” It’s a life she never envisioned for herself. Before Roman, Solana didn’t see herself making it to thirty. But because of him, she’d had her first set of kids by thirty. “I can’t lose—that. I can’t lose you.”
Despite the tightness in her chest and the way her eyes burn from how much she’s cried over the past few two weeks, she manages to channel enough strength to turn to look at him.
It’s like looking at herself. A different side of herself. Harder, stronger, firmer. A pillar. The other and best parts of her in so many ways.
His glossed eyes burn into her, hand lifting to palm her cheek. “Solana—”
“You’re my best friend.” She sniffles, shaking her head as his thumb brushes away her tears. “I don’t know how to do life without you, Roman, and the fact that one day, a day that's sooner rather than farther, is a reality that I will have to face terrifies me. I don’t—" Another deep, sharp intake of breath that makes her chest tighten and shoulders slump once more. "I should have told you about the pregnancy."
"Sol—"
"I hated—hated lying to you. I—I shouldn't have, but I—I thought if I could—if I could spare you from feeling that pain, then—then I was going to do that for you. All you've ever done is protect me, and I—I wanted to be the one to protect you for once. "But in the grand scheme of things, it doesn't really matter anymore. It was selfish of her to keep such a thing from Roman. Yes, just as she stated, she wanted nothing more than to protect her husband the way he'd always protected her. Intentions, however, matter not in the face of the outcome and reality. She was wrong, and there's no way around that. Plain and simple.
She bites down on her bottom lip, realizing that this is the moment to lay it all out. Good, bad, whatever it may be, Roman is more than deserving of the truth. He always was.
"For almost twenty years, there wasn't a single day where I wasn't haunted by the —the memories of my rape or—or my mother's murder, and sometimes—sometime both." Solana manages a shaky breath, powering through it all. "I couldn't help it. Couldn't control it. But that…that I could. I—I know you don't believe me, but I hadn't thought about it in years, Roman." She lifts her eyes to his once more, having to push back the next wave of tears just beyond the horizon. "When—when we got pregnant with Nicky, when we had him, I pushed it so far to the back of my mind that it wasn't until we were arguing—"
And just like in the days following both the discovery and the loss, an immense weight on her chest and in her heart. That weighs her down and makes her desperate to reach for something. For someone. Because there wasn't a day that passed that Solana didn't want to tell Roman, didn't want to share the truth as to why they couldn't be intimate. What'd happened. What they'd lost.
But she didn't. And that is a mistake she will have to carry with her for the rest of her life. A mistake that she'll regret for the rest of her life.
Looking at him once more, seeing the emotion dancing in his eyes, a rare display and reflection of vulnerability that's never felt stronger, Solana is overcome once more.
“I love you.”
A combination and accumulation of everything that’s transpired over the past two weeks. Emotions that have deprived her of peace, stripped her of calm and layered her with the weight of loss.
Solana’s children have always been her greatest source of joy, but the fact of the matter is that she has them because of him. Because of Roman.
And as frustrated and upset as she’s been with him, that she was, the bulk of her emotions hasn’t been anger.
It’s been hurt.
A type of pain that she hasn’t experienced in years. Old wounds gradually and torturously ripped open that, prior to this, she was sure she’d healed from. A level of unhealthy codependency.
She would never ever do anything to hurt herself. Would never do that to her kids, nor does she have any desire to not be alive.
But….
There’a sick, twisted feeling that’s sat with her since that session. Since Roman more or less, and maybe she did, too, confirm that their marriage is over. A feeling she hasn't experienced since before he entered her life. Before he turned her existence into living. And just the thought of that living not including him in any sort of capacity….it's something she can't bear.
She can’t. It's why her initial approach to the deeper reason as to why she reacted so strongly to learning of his stroke was traded in for another heavy truth that needed to be addressed. Upsetting to discuss, of course, but not nearly debilitating as that truth.
"I know…" She closes her eyes, hand over his that's still on and hasn't left her face. Same with his intense stare and the presence of his body before her as they remain on the ground, unmoving and frozen in space and time. "I know you're upset with me, and—and that you don't want to see me, s—"
"Solana."
It's not like it's the first attempt he's made to speak in the midst of her verbal catharsis, but something about the pleading undertone of his deep voice penetrates through her dense wall of contrition, regret, and remorse. She blinks away the next set of tears, incapable of ignoring the wave of relief that stems from him looking at her, touching her even, in a way he hasn't in weeks. His regard and disposition towards her, as well as hers towards him, have been nothing short of frigid. But the warmth felt from his touch, seen in his face, and heard in his voice almost instantly melts away the icebergs that formed perimeters around her heart.
And perhaps maybe his.
One hand dips to her waist as Solana realizes at some point in the midst of her sentiment fueled soliloquy, he'd angled them so that her body was facing his. The press of his fingers into her skin as he gently tugged her close made something thud in her chest. A precursor for what would follow following his next statement.
His eyes narrow, gleaming with intensity and adoration she hadn't realized she'd been craving and yearning for so deeply. The absence of his affection has been a sort of torture she hadn't realized she was gradually succumbing to in the midst of their impasse. "All I see is you." Her lips part as a shaky exhale is lost in the midst of her anguish and relief at words that carry more weight than anyone outside of herself and the man in front of her could ever know or understand. "You said you can't lose me, right?" The faintest, smallest hint of a smile weighed down by reciprocated sentiment is preceded by the way he shakes his head in a small, subtle motion. "Well, that makes two of us, cause I can’t be without you, either.”
The combination of the words, the emotions, and the echoing of her own vulnerable confession, is what forces the next wave to the surface. And Solana will never deny that there's a continued theme of selfishness as she throws her body against his, allowing him to hold and cradle the back of her head as she sobs into his chest. Recognizes that there's certainly some level of relief he also feels at this devastating rough patch of theirs finding some sort of path to resolution in comparison to the alternative that was dangerously close to being the final decision. But it, if she had to guess, doesn't outweigh what weight is pulled from off her as he once again reiterates his love for her.
"Tell—tell me—" she hiccups, grasping at his shirt once more. "Tell me what to do to fix this. I'll do—I'll do anything, Roman. Just….just tell me what you need me to do." And she means it. Whatever frustration and anger still lingers towards his concealment of the stroke is heavily outweighed by her desire to heal. To fix.
Whatever it takes.
"We need to get away," he finally answers and pulls back to look down at her. She continues to hold onto his shirt, as if release means releasing him as well. Never. Roman lifts his hand to stroke the top of her head. "This weekend. Leya and Rashad can watch Aubrey and Tavita." Solana nods, her willingness to blindly accept not even allowing her to consider who would watch their youngest set of kids. But of course, Roman is already several steps ahead. He's always been the one to plan and arrange so she doesn't have to. Always done everything he can to make her life as easy as possible.
But ease doesn't exist in her world without him.
She can't imagine a world without him.
"And we'll talk," he continues. Her eyes flutter shut once more when he lies his forehead against hers, minty breath fanning her face. "Okay?"
In perhaps most settings, the promise to "talk" would ignite a massive wave of anxiety. But for Solana, it's exactly what she needs to hear. Exactly what they need to do. Should have done a long time ago. Such a simple but powerful necessity to maintain and sustain a marriage. A marriage she's not willing to give up on. She won't.
She can't.
Whatever it takes.
Nodding in acknowledgement, she can't stop herself from moving her arms around him, holding him as another round of tears accompany her heartfelt, "I love you."
Her eyes clench shut once more as he drops his hand to the small of her back, voice tight and thick. "I love you, too, Solana. I always have, and I always will."
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒𑁤 as roman and solana continue to work towards consummating their marriage, solana, especially, is also starting to realize that not only is intimacy not something to fear—it's something to enjoy. thoroughly.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𑁤 fluff. angst. themes and references to csa and sexual harassment. sexy time aka mild smut. fmc is sexually inexperienced. mmc has a filthy mouth.
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒𑁤 six thousand and some change (6k+)
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𑁤 roman reigns x black!oc
𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𑁤 photos and gif's from google, pinterest, and instagram. title graphic and dividers by me.
𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐎𑁤❝la isla bonita❞ by madonna
𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𑁤 so this takes place over a couple of things. starting after chapter 11 and ending right before chapter fourteen. it also references 'say you won't let go' and this blurb.
An embarrassing amount of enthusiasm soars through Solana’s body as she watches the passing scenery shift from retail to residential to—eventually—the familiar, heavily secured entrance to Roman’s estate.
Their estate.
Their home.
It’s something she’s not sure she’s been able to fully grasp just yet. How a place she once dreaded and prayed to one day escape has become a sanctuary. The house she grew up in was just a house. Perhaps something more before her mother was killed, but after that? It’s been nothing more than a prison.
This…..this is a home.
Her home.
Warmth continues to bloom in the base of her stomach, the smile stretched across her face as she nearly jumps out of the SUV the minute the door is open. Not even her usual, quiet ‘thank you’ to the driver and Solo as she jogs across the cobblestone driveway and up the perron staircase that leads to their large Mediterranean-style double entry door. She fiddles around with her purse, pulling out, using, and sliding the key back into her bag in under a minute. Instantly, she’s welcomed with the clean linen scent of the plug ins she’d replaced just this morning.
As if she knew.
“Roman?” Her voice echoes throughout the grand entryway as she tosses her purse onto the steps that she speedily rounds to venture down the hall that leads to his office. “Roman?” Heart beating and anticipation reaching a boiling point, it’s when she’s standing outside the open double doors that it ruptures into a burst of dopamine.
He’s leaning back against the front of his desk. Arms crossed, black, tight fitting shirt hugging his inked arms and highlighting the definition of his strong, broad shoulders. Dark jeans with, of course, dark shoes. Black diamond necklace around his neck that’s partially obscured by his loose curls that are down and free vs the slick, neat bun he usually styles his hair into every morning.
It’s when his eyes shift to her though that her brief state of paralysis is shattered.
Solana’s cheeks hurt from how hard and deep she’s smiling as she closes the distance between them, running up to him, eyes shutting when he quickly and easily welcomes her into his arms.
She wraps her arms around his neck, his secured around her waist as she breathes in the scent of him. Her fingers near the nape of his neck, the feel of his hard body against hers doesn’t cause her to tense nor panic but rather relax in a way she now realizes she hasn’t been able to ever since he left.
It’s a realization that makes her clutch him tighter.
She bites down on her bottom lip at the feel of his soft lips on her temple, pressing a kiss that’s followed by a low chuckle. “Miss me?”
A happy giggle tumbles out her mouth as she relaxes her arms, gliding her palms down his chest and allowing her heels to relax against the Persian rug. She cranes her head back to look up at him, seeing the tail end of him nodding and almost scowling at something behind her.
It’s only when she turns her head, however, that she realizes it’s not something. It’s someone.
Several.
Even without the view of their faces as they empty out the room, it’s not hard to make out the individuals she somehow completely missed the moment she locked eyes with her husband. Neat braids. Bleached curled ends. Dark clothing. Similar gait. A bald head, pin striped suit, and a…waddle of sorts.
The twins.
The twins and Paul Heyman.
And for the first time since Bayley and Naomi unintentionally spoiled Roman’s early return, her smile drops.
She turns back to Roman, frown in full force. “I’m sor—”
Her apology is lost in the midst of her husband lowering his head just enough to catch her lips for a kiss that makes her initially gasp only to quickly—and naturally—melt. Her fingers scraping against and wrinkling his shirt as she leans into it and him, their bodies meshed into one. But it’s when he gently bites down on her bottom lip that she gasps quietly, and he pulls away.
She has to fight the urge to pull him back.
“What I tell you about that?” Lips parted, stomach coiling, her eyes flutter as he gently grabs her chin. “Huh?” His thumb glides across her bottom lip as she works to settle the nerves that are like rapid fire in her stomach and the heat that suddenly has her second-guessing her decision to go with jeans over the skirt.
It’s suddenly much warmer than she remembers.
“I don’t want to hear none of that apologizing shit,” he dismisses. “Unless—”
But before her brain can kickstart that usual spiraling and overthinking that’s been her default for so long, she observes the way his gaze flicks down from her face to her chest, eyes flashing with something before he motions with his chin for her to step back.
She does as such, hating the way her fingers tingle and flex at her side, the separation of the two of them making her frown deepen for reasons she can’t explain.
Solana continues to stare at Roman, the seconds that pass without him saying anything nothing short of torturous. But a shift occurs when he reaches for her hand and raises her arm, again motioning in a way she somehow understands. Starting to turn around when he stops her just as she’s about to make a full 90 degree twist. Looking over her shoulder and the way his full lips part and a low profanity slips out lessens the anxiety swirling in her stomach.
“Unless it’s for not including a picture of your fine ass when you text me this morning.” He bites down on his lip as the bashful smile on her face instantly returns as does the way she turns to face and lean into him. The swipe of his thick tongue across his bottom lip and the refocusing of his eyes onto her chest once more making the heat travel up to her cheeks. “The fucking audacity to apologize when all I’m looking at and see are your big ass tittie—”
“Roman!” Solana giggles, reaching up and slapping her hand over his mouth. It’s a short-lived, forced silence when she drops her hand and head, eyes slightly widening once more, though significantly less than when she first looked at herself in the mirror after dressing. “It’s—Bayley and Naomi told me to get it. I didn’t—I told them it was too revealing—”
Outside of training and helping her learn how to fight, near the top of Bayley and Naomi's list of changes have focused heavily on appearance. Namely, wardrobe. Solana is almost certain that most of the clothes she moved into the house with now sit at the bottom of a donation bin.
If not burned.
Her closet and drawers mostly consist of entirely new pieces, several of which came with price tags so exorbitant that she still cringes whenever she thinks about how much money Roman has dished out on just clothes alone. Not to mention the shoes, accessories, purses, and more. It feels....it feels too much, sometimes. Similar to the sentiments experienced when she stood in front of the full body mirror in her bedroom. Adjusted the top at least five different times before accepting that no amount of shifting material that felt three sizes too small as it was could prevent the way her breast were so....exposed. Or the way her jeans hugged every curve of her lower half.
Especially her butt.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Once more, his hands have found home on her body, one curving around her back and settling on her ass, the other creeping up her stomach. “All this body you got, and you always trying to cover it up.” A quiet, sharp intake of breath when he loops his thumb through the metal clamp sitting closer to her stomach versus the middle of her chest. Her throat tightening as his long fingers span across her right breast with a gentle squeeze that makes her eyes shut once more. He says something low and indecipherable and dips his head to the crook of her neck. Her head naturally nods to the side, allowing him greater access to her neck that he starts to suck on.
“Roman….” She swallows. “What—what did you say?”
His coy response is followed up with kisses to the corner of her mouth. “When the time comes, I’ll show you better than I could ever tell you.”
Anticipation spurs but is forced away when the shock of his return reminds her why he was gone in the first place.
“Are you alright?” She lifts her hands to palm his bearded face. “Were you able—did you—”
Truth be told, Solana still isn’t entirely sure what required him to be away for almost a week. In all their correspondence during his absence, he never shared, and she never asked. But it doesn’t mean she can’t inquire about the status of whatever the task or dilemma was.
“Yeah,” he answers. “I did.”
There’s something in the way his jaw shifts and volume drops that makes her want to press. Want to follow-up with a question inquiring about veracity. She doesn’t believe that he’s lying, but there’s something underneath the surface of his answer.
Regardless, she doesn’t want to push, thus her deciding to leave it alone.
For now, at least.
“Good.” She nods, pressing her lips together and allowing her fingers stroke the top of his cheat, pushing away some of his curls. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming back early? I would have made sure I had something cooke—”
“Solana, you’re my wife. Not my personal chef,” he reminds. His hands settle on her ass, as that almost lighthearted tone returns with his reiteration. “You don’t always have to—”
“But I want to.” She interrupts only to catch herself as she shakes her head. “Sor—I just….I feel like it’s the least I can do.” Another quick, efficient catch that allows her to reel in the apology she already knows he won’t accept on the grounds of it being unnecessary.
Even if she doesn’t necessarily agree.
Roman sighs. Her eyes flutter when he reaches to stroke the top of her hair. She understands that he’s made clear several times over that if she likes something, then that’s all that matters. But it seems her haircut is something he really likes and that makes her own approval of it that much stronger. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“Yes,” she whispers. “Yes, I do.”
It’s a topic that they’ll always have to agree to disagree on, and naturally so. He could never truly understand what life was like before him. When she lived in that house for almost thirty years, majority of which were filled with an unspeakable amount of abuse and torture. Solana has no doubt that if not for Roman, she would have died in that house the same way her mother did. And if not by the hand of her dad or brother, then her own.
She would have eventually taken her own life. Been successful.
But she didn’t.
She won’t.
Because of him.
Because of Roman.
And that’s a debt no amount of verbal and nonverbal gestures of gratitude can ever fully repay.
So whether Roman wants to admit it or not, she does owe him.
She owes him her life.
Tropical the island breeze
All of nature wild and free
This is where I long to be
La isla bonita
Solana’s hips wind in slow, almost sensual movements, her voice low just enough for her to hear the way she sings along to one of her favorite songs even under the sound of running water that fills the sink with soapy water.
She glides across the kitchen to grab the stack of dirty plates that she rinsed on the left side before depositing them into the right. A small smile on her face when she hears a high-pitched bark.
“Dulce.”
Her sweet Pomeranian is sitting to the right of her, on the rubber mat in front of the dishwasher. Looking up with her fluffy tail wagging.
“Dulce, you had your dinner already.”
Dinner Solana prepared while also making dinner for herself and Roman as she waited for him to return home from work. Dinner along with an extra treat.
Or two.
But Dulce has moments of gluttony, and, of course, a canine nose, hence her probably smelling the leftovers Solana already stored into plastic containers and has sitting near the stove until it’s cooled down enough to refrigerate.
The followed up bark along with hoisting her butt up in the air to further emphasize her bark and stance of protest makes Solana roll her eyes.
“No mas, Dulce.”
The final decline issued in Spanish seems to do the trick as Dulce walks away, tail lowered, and determination subsided.
It makes her roll her eyes and resume her singing as she finishes loading the dishes into the sink. The hypnotic and addictive melody, however, seems to overpower her focus and will, even as she hits the faucet to turn off the water, sink completely filled. A small smile on her face and joy in her belly when she closes her eyes and dances around the kitchen. Nothing choreographed or complex in terms of movements but rather natural movements fueled by the music and overall happiness felt for the first time in a long time.
Solana isn’t sure she’s ever felt as happy as she feels now. In this life that she now calls hers. Existence traded for living. A life never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined or envisioned for herself.
She giggles and spins around only to jump and gasp loudly. Slaps her hand over her mouth.
“Mio dios!”
Roman stands near the entrance of the kitchen, arms crossed, dressed in sweats and a white, fitted undershirt. His eyes are focused on her, lips turned into a small smile.
“Don’t stop,” he encourages. “I’m enjoying this.”
But his enjoyment comes at the expense of her embarrassment as she rushes over to the island to grab her phone. She lifts it up and jabs the pause button before lifting her head, gasping once again when she realizes Roman is no longer a few feet away.
He’s right in front of her.
She licks her lips and stammers. “You—you scared me.”
Solana doesn’t even want to think of how long he was standing there just….watching her.
He makes a sound and strokes a tendril of hair between his index finger and thumb. “I’m sorry.” He doesn’t sound it.
But it’s insignificant as she yelps when he lifts and places her onto the granite island. “Roman—”
“I want to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me.”
The smile is swiped away, her anxiety extrapolating despite the way he continues to look at her without any trace of irritation or anger. Just curiosity that’s evened out by the almost soft tone of his voice.
Solana clears her throat, fingers naturally shifting to toy with the hem of her shirt. “O—okay.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “What was it you saw on your phone during dinner?”
Her shoulders slump.
As much as she would love to play coy, to pretend she doesn’t know what he’s talking about, there are several real, valid reasons as to why none of those are good options.
Outside of her being a terrible liar, Roman can see through anything, and him detecting her subterfuge would set them several steps back. It would be counterproductive to all of the work they’ve been putting in to make this marriage real. To make their relationship real.
Not to mention, the last time she lied or didn’t tell him the truth, didn’t tell him at all, it didn’t end up well. Sure, it was the segue for them navigating how to learn and live with each other, but it would still be a step back.
And Solana is tired of being held back and bogged down by things of the past.
The present is here and what matters most.
It’s more or less what was reflected in said text she received in the group chat from Bayley and Naomi that encouraged her to follow through what she’d shared with them a few days ago when they were out shopping. Right before she cut their outing short to reunite with her husband.
Her husband who continues to stand and wait patiently for an answer.
Solana briefly dips her gaze to her lap. “There’s—“ She takes a deep breath.
I can do this.
Nodding to herself, she lifts her head at the same time she murmurs, “there’s a man—”
“What man?” Roman cuts in. Whatever calm existed before is replaced with urgency, his expression hardening. “Tell me.”
His abrasive tone is intimidating, but it’s not intimidating enough to render her silent. She powers through her anxiety, all while still fiddling with her shirt.
“He—he’s been coming into the library the past two weeks, and—he—he makes comments about me. To me.” She shakes her head, adding almost desperately in lieu of the way Roman rolls his neck, jaw ticking. “Not—not mean! Just—just inappropriate. Like—like he’s flirting with me.” It’s beyond flirting. Sexual harassment, as Bayley and Naomi called it when she provided specific examples. Examples she won’t share with her husband given the way his anger seems to be jumping leaps and bounds based on the crumbs she is providing. “I—I told him I’m married, but—but he doesn’t stop.”
And therein lies the problem. The main one, at least. As nerve-wracking as it was to attempt to assert herself, to actually lift her hand and show off the diamond ring she’s not sure how anyone could miss, and double down on her requests for him to cease the flirtatious comments, it did nothing.
He chuckled, shrugging his shoulders and stuffing his hands into his pockets. He gave a smile that made her skin crawl, mouth and nose slightly crooked, teeth more cream than white. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right?”
“Solo tried to step in, but I—”
“I’ll handle it.”
Roman’s interruption is quiet and sharp. His eyes are narrowed, the flames dancing in his irises and anger rolling off his shoulders exacerbating her anxiety. The tension is palpable and fills the kitchen in way that feels both suffocating and unbearable.
It makes her stomach drop, intrusive thoughts breaking through the surface.
“Are you angry with me?”
Her whispered question causes a complete 180. His brows furrow and mouth dips into a frown. “Solana….” He moves his hand to the back of her neck, the other sliding behind her as he tugs her to the edge of the counter and steps closer so that he’s standing between her legs. “No. Of course not, baby. Why would I be? You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Reassuring words that crack but don’t destroy the dense surface of deeply ingrained trauma. “I don’t—I don’t know. I just. Maybe—maybe I shouldn’t.” She swallows, emotion deep. “Maybe I shouldn’t dress so—”
“Don’t.” His interruption is immediate and sharp, his finger stroking her kitchen area as he moves his other hand to her face, forcing her to lift her chin. “Don’t do that shit. I don’t give a fuck what you wear. You could be fucking naked, and it still doesn’t give anyone the right to—” He stops, closing his eyes and clearly shoving away revived feelings of anger. But his eyes focus on her once more and instantly soften. “I’ll take care of it….alright?” She nods, managing a small smile, noticing the way she’s stopped fiddling with her shirt and instead has her hand on his chest. A hand that’s dropped when she sets aside reservations and leans into desire and him.
She wraps her arms around his neck to hug him.
Her eyes shut and tension melts away entirely when he returns her embrace, kissing her temple, mumbling, “thank you for telling me.”
Solana swallows the lump in the back of her throat.
“Thank you for believing me.”
She can’t be certain, but she swears he holds her tighter at her whispered response.
A minute or two pass before he taps her hip and pulls back. “Go shower. I’ll finish the kitchen.”
Solana opens her mouth to protest or at least offer some assistance, but he’s already shaking his head. “I got it.” He helps her down onto the floor, hands remaining on her waist as she cranes her head back to look up at him. Their height difference is astounding. “We can watch that deceit show.”
She giggles, smile widening. “Pretty Little Liars?”
“Same difference.”
Solana opts against correcting him, instead reaching for her phone and accepting his offer. “O—okay.”
But it’s when she turns to leave and feels his hand slap her ass that she turns around giggling, smile never breaking nor diminished. Just big and real. She reflects what she feels.
“Roman!”
“Dulce!”
Solana giggles, stepping into the house, closing and locking the door behind her and her puppy who seems keen on getting back in the bed. She’s noticed that Dulce doesn’t seem to like being disturbed when she’s found that deep REM of sleep that has her body either halfway hanging off the bed or curled into a ball. Solana will be grateful once her sweet girl is fully potty trained, and judging by the way Dulce hauled ass to head back up the steps to go back to sleep, so will she.
Pushing her hair behind her ear, Solana heads into the living room, realizing that she left her phone up on the counter in the bathroom. It doesn’t take much for her to opt to leave it there and grab it before they go to bed. The group chat had gone silent shortly before she hopped in the shower, and with Roman being with her, there’s little need for it.
If any at all.
The sound of her slippers slapping against the hardwood flooring is silenced when she enters the carpeted area where Roman is already sitting and waiting for her on the sofa facing their open kitchen. Lamps on either side turned on instead of the bright, fluorescent overhead lighting assists in setting the mood for the their late night viewing. Pretty Little Liars. Ever since his late night drugstore run where he picked up enough period products to get her through the next year and the subsequent joining of her watching one of her favorite shows, several occasions have occurred where he joins her on the sofa or turns over to face the TV when she watches from the comfort of their bed.
Truth be told, Solana can’t tell which she enjoys more. Him watching the show or his commentary that never fails to put a smile on her face despite him being completely serious.
“I don’t understand why these damn girls are never in school.”
“Are all the male characters on this fucking show pedophiles?”
“How many goddamn episodes are gonna end in these stupid ass cliffhangers?”
But despite his many, many, protests about said show, it doesn’t stop the way his eyes stay glued to the television.
And Solana’s focus briefly switches to said television when she’s met with the splash screen instead of the familiar still frame of the Liars in front of the casket.
“Is it not—” She easily and quickly snaps her mouth shut when she returns her gaze to her husband. “Wh—what? What’s wrong?”
The second question is naturally and possibly necessary given the way his expression is the perfect blend of stoic and unreadable. She can tell that he’s not actually upset. His furry brows aren’t caved and his mouth not set into a scowl that emphasizes the age lines under his eyes and near the top of his sharp cheek bones.
But he is something.
“Is that my shirt?”
Solana’s eyes immediately drop downward as she takes in her attire. The black shirt that drapes off one shoulder and is elevated around the chest area by her breast, nipples perked and poked against the soft fabric.
She swallows. “Yes. I—I’m sorry.” Closing her eyes, she shakes her head and attempts to explain despite the million and one thoughts swirling around in her head. “I was just—I was doing laundry the other day, and I—I grabbed one of your shirts. I didn’t think—”
“Solana.” She snaps her head up to look at him, seeing the way he’s edged his big body to the edge of the sofa. Watches how he lifts his hand and beckons her towards him. “Come here.”
She licks her lips, anxiety doubling with each slow step taken in his direction. Trepidation that triples when he suddenly reaches for her hand, tugging her forward with enough force that she nearly stumbles if not for the way he eases her onto his lap. Slippers toppling off, her hands anchor onto his shoulders and valiant attempts are made to ignore the way her legs on either side of his thighs cause her/his shirt to hike up, exposing the fact that nothing exists underneath said shirt expect for her underwear.
Or the way their bodies….connect.
Roman starts with his hands on her waist before gradually easing them down to her hips, bunching up the shirt. His fingertips brush against her skin and evoke a pulsing sensation in her chest and elsewhere.
Her lips part as he drags his mouth along her jawline, her head instinctively nodding back, forcing his lips to ghost over hers. “You can wear anything of mine anytime in any way that you want as long as I get to see you in it.” His deep, breathy reassurance has a twofold effect in that it completely obliterates the anxiety she now realizes was fully unnecessary, but it also heightens the heat and desire that seem to be increasing with every passing second. Roman’s lips curve up into a smug smirk as he trails his index finger across her hip. “Or out of it.”
Her smile instantly returns, but it’s accompanied by that burning sensation in her cheeks. Flustered isn’t a strong enough word to explain what she feels. But it doesn’t stop the way she mirrors his smile or the way she leans into his touch. “Are you always so….explicit?”
“You think that’s explicit?” He chuckles quietly, hands gliding up and down the small of her back as he tugs on her bottom lip. “Pretty girl, you should hear the shit I don’t say but think.” Her eyes shut and hands shift to his face, their eyes locking as he somehow finds a way to pull her closer despite the fact that their chests are already mushed together. The aroma of her perfume and his cologne conjoined and complimentary. Them. It's them. “All the damn time...”
Naturally, Roman is the one to make the first move. The one to capture her lips for a kiss that, as most, starts out tentative. Slow and unsteady, allowing the opening and option for departure or retreat. For her to cease and set the pace and expectations. As he always does and has, especially since they’ve been working up to intimacy. And given her…setback two days prior, Solana is immensely grateful.
For all of it. For his kindness. For his patience. For him. It just makes the feelings that continue to grow by the day grow that much stronger.
Feelings that feel unlike anything she’s ever felt before.
Towards anyone.
Ever.
But reassurance is provided when she steps out of her comfort zone and kisses him back with an intensity and passion he usually directs towards her. An unspoken sign of approval that she’s fine. More than fine.
A nonverbal that’s fully received by him when he reclines back into the sofa, leaving them at an angle as she hovers over him, never once breaking their heated kiss. Thermal sensations growing when his hands continue to explore her body in ways that are both familiar and new, the latter especially prominent when his left hand drops down to squeeze her ass and the right travels to her breast.
Both under her shirt.
His fingers ghosting the swell of her big breast is what forces her to break the kiss as she gasps against his mouth.
Though her vision is just as hazy and muddy as her brain feels, she’s fully aware of the way his eyes rake over her face.
“You want me to stop?”
It’s an easy answer. She shakes her head and quickly remembers his rule. “No.” Reaffirmed in the way she kisses him again, once again interrupted when he takes her hand and gradually guides her into newfound territory. This isn’t the first time he’s touched her beyond and under her clothes, but it’s never exceeded quick, simple caresses. There’s nothing quick though about the way his hand cloaks over her breast, giving a gentle squeeze and flick of his thumb over her nipple. Or how he interrupts the way their mouths move against and with each other to pay her neck an equal amount of attention and appreciation.
Solana’s breathing easily descents into uneven territory as Roman continues to palm her breast and suck on her neck, the latter motion the same one that’s left those marks on her that warrant blushing and stammered, stumbled explanations when pointed out by Naomi and Bayley.
But it’s hard to have any sort of reservation with how good he’s making her feel.
“Roman….”
Her body naturally arches into him, the friction of her crotch over his lap palpable in several different ways for both him and her. But it’s only when she grips his bicep, fingers digging into his inked skin that he lifts his head, eyes bouncing from her eyes to her lips.
“You trust me?”
Another question with only one answer.
She nods, voice soft but sure. “With my life.”
Solana observes the way an un unidentified sentiment briefly gleams in his expression, halfway expecting him to say something only to be met with silence that’s both defining and booming.
Her eyes remain locked with his when he returns and tightens his grip on her hips just enough, gently moving her back before gradually sliding her forward. A jolt of something powerful and throbbing spurs from between her thighs when her still clothed and covered vagina glides over something hard and probing.
Him.
It’s him.
Her jaw drops open, however, and her fingers dig into his shoulders when he does it again. For a brief moment, she starts to ask him, to tell him, to stop. It’s the most…..contact they’ve had in this way. His hands—and mouth—have explored every inch of her except there. It’s been the one level she’s been unable to unlock for him.
Until now.
Because fear is easily shoved to the back burner when Solana realizes something stronger burns within. Has her eyes fluttering and her stomach coiling in the same way it did when he…..touched her in front of the mirror.
Except this somehow feels stronger. It is stronger.
And Roman, being Roman, must have found a way to invade her thoughts. He stills, thumb moving circles through her shirt. His shirt. “You want me to stop?”
Solana swallows, her throat dry all over again for another set of reasons. “No.”
“Good.”
He does it again.
That slow, precise drag of her body on top of his lap, over his large erection that pokes against her most sensitive space. That probe in conjunction with the motions making her grip on his shoulders tighten, her eyes flutter, and low, airy moans spill out of her mouth. Staccato like breaths that intensify in tandem with the consistent rhythm he creates. Each connecting touch electrifying and increasing the throbbing and need that burns bright and blinds behind her closed eyes.
“That’s it….” His deep voice powers through the blissful haze that has her leaning forward, head on his shoulder, her hands dragging down his huge, muscular arms. “Good girl.”
Solana can’t tell which is heavier, more intense. The way her heart is thumping against her ribcage or the way she finds herself moving in sync with his guided motions, chasing the feeling and pleasure that she’s slowly realizing is not inaugural.
She’s….she’s felt this before.
Never this intense, but close.
So close.
The mirror.
When he touched her as they stood in front of the mirror and he forced her to watch as he simultaneously worked to hack away at her body insecurity but to also grant her a first.
An orgasm.
And that’s exactly what he’s doing now.
“Oh my—” She gasps, whimpering and eyes clenching shut at the coiling in the pit of her stomach and her throbbing vagina, wet and sticky underwear swallowed by her thick pussy lips. The fabric bunched up resulting in her bare skin brushing against his cotton sweat pants, also damp, the resulting friction amplifying her bliss.
“Roman, I—” She gasps, rendered a stammering, moaning, writhing mess. God. It feels so good. “I’m—I—”
“I know,” he murmurs, stroking the sides of her ass, kneading into the meaty flesh. “Just let it go, pretty girl.” Her mouth drags open, his shirt embedded between her teeth as her eyes clench shut. “Take it. Take what’s yours, Solana.”
Something about his words, or perhaps the combination of it all, spurs liberation. Thrusts her over the finish line as she gasps loudly, groaning lowly and continuing to grind atop his lap as an overwhelming, debilitating, and titillating wave of phenomenon drowns her. Has her clinging onto him, using his body as a necessary anchor. Roman’s strokes up and down the small of her back accompany the way he kisses her temple help her settle back down to whatever earth is at this point.
It takes a few moments for her to reorient to reality, let alone find a way to verbalize a complete sentence.
Still panting and reeling, she manages to lift her head to look at him. “Did—did I—”
“Hmmm.” He slides his hand towards the side of her body, thumbs once more moving with soft caresses that make her eyes struggle to stay open. “You tell me.”
Solana starts to frown when she watches his gaze gesture down, forcing her own to follow and instantly widen.
“Oh my God.”
It wasn’t that she couldn’t feel the….moisture between her legs and coating on the inside of her still trembling thighs. Despite sexual experience limited to a horrific violation as a child, Solana knows enough, especially since marrying Roman, to understand how the basic physiology behind intimacy works. She knew that she was wet.
She just didn’t realize how wet. Or rather, how much.
Roman’s light gray sweats are soaked, reflecting a deep, dark color that glistens with clear and white liquid as is the portion of her underwear, most of which is still embedded deep inside her slick folds, but the edges present with the same saturated color.
An immense amount of something else comes over her when she lifts her head to meet her husband’s smug expression.
“I—I didn’t—I didn’t mean—”
An apology silenced when he kisses her. “You better get used to that,” he remarks, kissing the corner of her swollen lips. “Because the minute I get to do all the things I want to do to you…”
His follow up statement as his hungry gaze soaks in the sight of her alert Solana to a milestone she’s only now realizing.
She didn’t stop him.
Didn’t have to force or push him away from overwhelming, horrifying flashbacks and touches that were far too triggering. There was apprehension, sure, but it was surrounded by the realm of unknown. Unmarked territory.
Or it was.
It creates an immense amount of pride that makes her smile return, small and emotional, but present.
She swallows once more as he pushes her hair behind her ears. “Did you....umm….”
Where the question comes from, she hasn’t a clue, but seeing the mess she made, it couldn’t have all been from her. It wasn’t. The noticeable stain above his crotch—that she still feels poking her—proved as much.
“Not about me.” He shakes his head, stroking her bottom lip when she opens her mouth to protest. “Besides…I’ve come enough at the thought of you.” Her stomach twists as his voice deepens. “Next time I come because of you will be because I'm finally inside of you.”
Her chest tightens, but it’s not from fear.
It’s from anticipation. The more they continue to explore and work towards the ultimate goal, the more and more she can feel the trepidation waning.
Less and less like a dream and more more like an actuality.
Like it’s not a matter of if but when.
She sneaks a quick, nervous kiss to the bridge of his nose, watching the corner of his mouth lift into a small smile. “I—I have to change.” Her underwear only, really, but still a change, nonetheless.
Except as she dismounts herself from his lap, legs wobbly but enough to keep her on her feet, Roman suddenly reaches for her hand.
She opens her mouth only for him to ease in with a swift, low. “I want to watch.”
For the briefest second, she’s confused. Ready to follow up with a clarifying question only for it to settle in almost instantly at the way his gaze darkens and dips to between her legs.
Oh
The alarm bells start to ring and blare in her ears, anxiety making its grand return. But instead of hijacking the drivers seat, it’s relegated to a passenger position that sits and watches. Is but a witness to the way Solana drops his hand and refuses to allow that nagging voice in the back of her head to take over and dictate.
Forces it to watch.
The way she slides her hands underneath the shirt, ensuring to slide in from the back versus the front, allowing it to raise mostly behind instead of front. Hooks her thumbs through the band, rolling them down her legs and stepping out.
All the while never breaking eye contact.
But her eyes widen once more when Roman snatches her soaked panties from her palms. Horror instantly transforms to something that makes her thighs snap together as he balls them up and lifts them to his face. Eyes shutting as he inhales deeply. Solana feels like the carpet underneath her suddenly became a lot less stable as the ground underneath shakes with vigorous fervor.
Her mouth drops open, but nothing comes out.
Roman simply smirks and leans back against the sofa, legs spread, seemingly uncaring of the large wet spot on his crotch. “I think I’ll keep these.” His long arms stretch across the top of the dark leather sofa, pink fabric seeping through his fingers that are clamped around her underwear. “They won’t be the first.” He drinks in the sight of her, expression smug once more as he glosses his tongue over his bottom lip. “Damn sure won’t be the last.”
Solana hasn’t the slightest clue what to say to that. What she even could or should say.
So she says nothing, murmuring a quiet “I’ll be right back,” and making haste for the staircase. It’s not until she’s in their bedroom, however, leaning back against the door that she looks down. Slowly pulls up the shirt and spreads her legs just enough to see what she started to feel the minute Roman instructed her to disrobe in front of him.
Dark inner thighs damp, pussy lips glistening from a fresh, new wave, clear droplets gliding down her smooth skin.
She closes her eyes and releases a shaky breath, allowing the shirt to drop and drift against her trembling body.
Maybe….maybe she should take another shower.
Or two.
a/n: tbh, the private jet scene towards the beginning of chapter fourteen always felt a tad bit out of left field. this last scene was intended to take place near the beginning of chapter thirteen, so it would have been:
makeout scene in chapter 11, mirror scene in chapter 12, this scene in chapter 13, and the private scene at the beginning of chapter 14 as the “build up” moments to roso’s first time.
but i opted to omit it as it felt out of place for the chapter's overall tone. looking back, i think it would have worked. but just know this was canon in my mind just not reflected fully in the main story....if that makes sense.
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒𑁤 love runs deep, but sometimes the pain runs deeper. and sometimes....it's irreparable.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𑁤 angst.
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒𑁤 six thousand, five hundred, and some change (6k+)
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𑁤 roman reigns x black!oc
𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𑁤 graphic and dividers by me.
𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐎𑁤 ❝mirror❞ by justin timberlake
𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𑁤 be sure to have read part one, never be the same and part two, say something, before reading this.
“And that’s the problem!” He shouts, either too deeply embedded into his own feelings to notice the way Solana jumps at his volume or perhaps, in this rare moment, he’s just uncaring. “That’s always been the fucking problem.” Roman punches his hand into his open fist to accompany each perfectly enunciated, sharp word, further emphasizing his frustration. “We’ve been stuck in this goddamn cycle for over twenty years now, and at this point, I don’t know how we break it.” But the frustration collapses with the slump of his shoulders and dip of his lips into a deep frown. “Or if it’s already broke us.”
Gail immediately refocuses on Solana, unsurprised to see her body language mimics that of her husband with the additive of the silent tears that stream down her face. Shoulders also slumped, mouth opening and closing as she struggles to verbalize what Gail knows must crush her to say aloud.
“Feels pretty broken to me.”
The silence is deafening.
Lita casts a quick glance between the two of them, leaned forward as she lowers her voice.
“Okay, there’s a lot—”
“I can’t do this right now,” Roman murmurs. Two set of eyes flick in his direction as he stands, turning in the opposite direction of Solana who remains seated, eyes shut, the tears continuing to fall.
“Roman—“
The last minute attempt to convince him to stay is a failed one. The door shutting behind him with a softness that contrasts everything that just occurred and remains in the small room that suddenly feels overwhelming with an influx of emotions.
“He’s done,” Solana whispers. Gail starts to move to reach and place her hand over Solana’s, but the other woman shakes her head. A one shoulder shrug and the saddest smile that’s ever graced someone’s face. “We’re done.”
“I’m getting really worried.”
Leya’s whispered confession draws the focus of her siblings. Her eyes remain down on her lap, on the intricate design of the pillow that she has hugged against her chest. It’s a sort of therapeutic technique she learned a long time ago. When she was younger and her OCD was the worst it’s ever been. Brie would instruct her to hold a pillow close to her chest, holding and squeezing it while taking deep breaths, pretending that the combination and eventual release of her breath and the tension in her body represented the “bad thoughts” being released.
It was helpful. Very helpful in some cases.
But right now, it’s not doing much.
“He’s still not back home,” Nic adds, frown deepening. His eyes flick around the room, his jaw shifting in the same way their dad's does when he's in the midst of thought, working and mulling over scenarios in real time while still maintaining verbal communication. “And he and mom are talking less and less.”
“Not even that,” Aria speaks up, looking among her brothers and sisters. Like once before, she sits only a few inches away from Leya. A symbolic seating of sorts considering they are two of the few siblings who still live at home. All for obvious reasons, whether it be them still being minors or situations like Leya where it just makes since given her having RJ. But their residing in the home also means that they've been granted a front row seat to the tension that's marred their family home over the past few weeks. “You could….you could tell they were upset with each other before, but now…now they don’t even seem angry anymore. They just seem….sad.”
It’s a shared sentiment among the older of the Reigns kids. Even Aroha, on the verge of her twelfth birthday, has pressed her siblings for questions regarding their parents obvious conflict. Both Aria and Leya have done their best to answer without answering, but Aroha isn't the baby of the family anymore with a limited ability to understand what's going on. She knows that something is very wrong, and there's only so many different ways they can dodge the obvious before she becomes aware of how dire the situation is.
Soon enough, Aubrey, Tavita, and RJ will be the only ones spared from the glaring realization that something is definitely, deeply wrong.
The kids were hoping that the joint therapy session Aria saw on her dad’s calendar when updating his phone for him would be the thing that did it. That helped their parents get through or over this hurdle that they’ve seemingly encountered.
But the evening of said session, Solana returned home alone. Roman didn't walk into the front door until they were setting the table for dinner, and Koa and Kai were feeding the pets.
And once all the younger kids were down for bed, Leya checked the camera app on her phone to see her dad climb into one of the family's many cars, start it up, and drive off.
She must have stared at the empty spot where the car once sat for a good ten minutes. At least until the image was blurred and distorted by the tears that were burning her eyes.
The displeasure of having a front row seat from the moment this all began, when her mom marched into the home carrying with her an energy that would change everything, has meant that Leya has, in many ways, been affected the most by it all. Lost in the chaos of a storm that has no visible end in sight and leaves in its wake destruction that's gradually starting to feel irreparable with each passing day of no reconciliation in sight.
For her and all of the rest of her siblings outside of the OG's 2.0, it’s been the most fucking uncomfortable thing ever. When the rough patch hit years prior, there were at least attempts to feign and maintain the role of a happy couple. Their efforts were not without the holes that the older kids were able to spot plain as day, but the fact that their parents at least tried to pretend that everything was fine, for the sake of not wanting to worry their kids, meant something.
But this isn't then.
Their parents aren’t even trying to force or fake shit. They’re just….there.
“I briefly overheard them talking last night—”
“Really?” It’s the most hopeful Leya has felt and sounded since they all arrived at Lina’s place, needing the space to speak and talk freely without Aroha or their parents overhearing. “What—what did they say?”
Koa shakes his head. His foot taps against the floor, his fingers also moving in rhythmic patterns against his knee. “I couldn’t make out all of it, but something about waiting until after Aroha’s birthday—”
“Waiting for what?”
Kai fixes his gaze on Lina. “He just said he couldn’t make it out.”
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
“Guys,” Tama’s deep voice cuts through what’s sure to be a part two from the last time they gathered together, except this time, he’s not about to let things get as far as they did before. He wasn't for it then, and he damn sure isn't for it now. Things were just bad then, but they're significantly worse now, and that's saying something. “Stop it. Now.”
“What if it’s happening this time?” Leya whispers. To herself. Maybe her siblings. She’s not sure. She just knows the sensation of her eyes burning is followed up with a wet feeling against her cheeks. “What if…what if they’re getting a divorced?”
“No way.” Nic's rebuff is quick and sharp. His voice drops an octave, deepening in the way almost all of the boys' voices do when they're irritated or uncomfortable. Again, just like their dad. “No one loves each other more than mom and dad.”
“Certainly doesn’t feel that way anymore.”
“Koa!”
“What?” He snaps, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s been over two weeks, and things aren’t getting any better. They’re only getting worse.”
“I can’t believe he had a stroke and didn’t tell mommy,” Lina voices what she’s been wondering since her sister broke the shocking, alarming news. “They tell each other everything.”
“Not this,” Kai mutters.
Tama starts to check his younger brother once more but opts to try to keep the conversation focused and on topic. “He probably didn’t want to worry her—”
“He’s done a great job with that.”
“Sissy,” Leya sighs. Lina looks at her twin, the solemn expression on a face that’s hers but also not making her shoulders drop. “Sorry,” she murmurs. “I just—” She swallows, eyes growing watery. “This can’t be happening. Mommy and daddy are soulmates. They can’t—they can’t get divorced.” She looks around the room, a sense of helplessness that’s foreign and suffocating. “They still love each other. I know they do.”
Lina has always been the problem solver of her siblings. Tama as well, but the final say has always been run past her. It’s always been her gift in life. A gift she inherited from her father. Underneath an often rough, tough exterior is a problem solving brain that is typically the source of countless, possible solutions.
But she sits among her brothers and sisters, stunned and damned to the silence that represents failure.
She can’t solve this.
Doesn’t know how.
Her words, however, trigger something within Aria. She lifts her head, slowly, mouthing something to herself. It’s faint and low but heard and noticed by Leya who looks at her with glossy eyes.
“What is it?”
The question manages to temporarily relieve the rest of kids from the depressing realization that the life they’ve always known, loved, and appreciated might be on the path of change.
And not the good type.
Samaria licks her lips, looking around the room, her gaze settling on Tama and Lina.
“I think I have an idea.”
————
The sound of the front door slamming and the soles of her foot slapping against the wooden floor serve as blurred background noise. Everything outside of racing thoughts, most of which were intrusive in nature, have clouded up her headspace. Ever since her phone lit up as she was in the midst of vacuuming out the OG's 2.0 playroom and saw a text from her eldest son. Simple in nature. Heavy in meaning.
We need you.
Solana was out the door in under twenty minutes. The short distance from the Reigns estate and the home of her eldest two children has never felt so far away as she sped through traffic, uncaring of any laws being broken in the process.
All she could think about was the fact that it was rare for her son to send such a short, non-descriptive message. Even more, especially since he moved out, Tama has always preferred to talk over text. At least with her.
So Solana knew that something had to be very wrong, hence the urgency that guided her movements and relentless efforts to make it to her babies.
Except the minute she rounds the entryway and heads for the living room, calls for her son and daughter left unanswered, worry is swapped for something else.
Shock.
Emerging from the kitchen, most likely through the backdoor entrance off said kitchen, Solana stands across from the man she's barely spoken more than ten words to over the past several days.
Roman.
His expression, she's certain, mirrors hers. He eyes her skeptically before his mouth settles into a line and her own mouth parts once and then twice before she manages to speak.
"What—what are you doing here?"
Though the minute it comes out, she immediately both regrets and answers her own question. If Tama reached out to her because something is wrong, of course he'd reach out to his dad as well.
Roman must realize this, too, as his answer never comes, or rather it's intercepted by the sound of footsteps as she turns around to see several of her oldest children. Tama is included in said group, but the expression on his face, on all of their faces, doesn't indicate a level or urgency.
It indicates….anxiety.
Like they're nervous about something.
Roman finally breaks his silence, voicing what Solana is thinking. "What's going on?"
Lina steps forward, her siblings eyes fixed onto her as she motions with her arm to the living room. "Please. Sit." She leans to the side just enough to ensure locking eyes with her father. "Daddy, you too."
And just like that, the concern about what had happened shifts to what's about to happen. Solana, however, would like to believe that her kids wouldn't have called both herself and Roman over here for nothing. So instead of pushing back the way she wants to, she silently walks into the living room, placing her purse on the space beside her.
Roman follows suit, sitting across the way, of course.
Though she understands it and prefers it, she also hates it. As upset and angry and hurt and everything else as she is towards and with her husband, it hasn't dulled the wound in her chest that's been birthed and only grown day after day since this all went down.
"Kids." Solana turns to see Roman is focused on their children who've also joined them in the living room, lined up almost in front of the television. Lina. Leya. Tama. Aria. Nic. "I'm not gon' ask again."
As much as Solana dislikes the almost irritated tone he's taken with them, the question is valid. Though she has a feeling she's not going to like the answer any more than he will.
Tama takes a deep breath and stuffs his hands in the pockets of his dark jeans. "Look, we know….we know you guys aren't in a good place right now."
Solana shuts her eyes. Her suspicions have now turned into confirmations.
"Tam—"
"And we know that you've always told us to stay out of it," Lina cuts in, the only one in the group other than Tama, that would have the balls to interrupt Roman like that. "That your marriage is none of our business and between the two of you."
Solana licks her lips, gradually willing her eyes open. "Lin—"
"But whatever is happening between you guys right now is affecting all of us," Nic's additive does nothing more than increase that weight on Solana's chest. She's not stupid. As much as she would like to believe she and Roman have done their best to not allow their situation to impact the kids, that's just not a feasible nor realistic expectation. With the exception of Aubrey and Tavita, Solana knows her children well enough to know they inherited their father's discernment.
They can see what doesn't need to be stated.
Aria takes another deep breath as she takes over for her brother." We know something is wrong, and we love you both too much to sit back and do nothing."
Solana doesn't need to be looking at her husband to see the way his jaw shifts and moves as he works to find the right, best words. “Samaria—”
“Please,” Leya cuts in, stepping forward, lips pressed together as her parents focus on her. “For…for us.”
It’s a bit of a cruel string to pull. A manipulation tactic if not for who it was to evoke it.
The only thing that neither Solana nor Roman can ever say no to.
When it comes to their kids, it’s always a yes.
It’s why, despite them sitting on opposite sofas—Solana on the one facing the TV and Roman on the one adjacent to the TV—they're on the same page for a first time in a long time.
Aria is the one to walk over to them, breaking from her brothers and sisters. “We know that we’re obviously biased since we’re your kids. Not to mention it’s not really our place, but we thought....” She stops, looking over at someone else to take over as she grabs the remote, setting up the television, the emotion in her voice indicative of her struggle. “We thought maybe if you hear it from someone other than us, it’ll help you remember.”
Solana shifts on the sofa, hating the way she struggles to maintain her volume. Indication and reminders of her immense difficulty over the past two weeks in trying to keep it all together. “Remember what?”
Lina is the one to handle the question, the final one, as the kids start to spill out the room.
“That you’re RoSo.”
The term makes both husband and wife still. But whatever is felt from hearing something that carries so much history and weight is redirected when music starts to play. A song she recognizes almost instantly.
Aren't you somethin' to admire?
'Cause your shine is somethin' like a mirror
And I can't help but notice
You reflect in this heart of mine
The dark screen lights up, cursive black font set against a white backdrop.
RoSo
Solana’s hand drops to her stomach at the transition to Dwayne and Matteo, clearly at the Warehouse, in the midst of a workout. The music remains playing in the background at a lower volume to accommodate the sounds of the interviewees.
“Uncle Dwayne. Uncle Teo.” Tama’s voice is loud and clear, confirming he’s the one filming the two men who stand with light sheen of sweat splayed across their forehead, hands on their waist. “What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you think of RoSo?”
Dwayne chuckles, looking at Matteo. “You wanna go first, Fabio?”
Matteo casts a wry smile and glances at the camera. “That’s easy.” He shrugs. “Love.”
Roman’s jaw clenches.
“Fucker stole my answer,” Dwayne curses, also looking at the camera. “But like he said, love. Unlike anything I’ve ever seen, either.”
The clips switches as a smiling Afia and Bayley stand next to each other. Like the men, dressed in workout/training attire and clearly at the Warehouse but caught right before the beginning of their sparring session.
“Tias.” It’s Lina’s voice this time as she presents the same question as her brother. “What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you think of RoSo?”
Bayley scoffs. “Douche, but that only applies to the first half.”
Afia lightly slaps Bayley on the arm, shaking her head before taking a soft breath. Her pretty eyes flick upward, narrowing slightly in the way she does when in deep thought. “Soulmates.”
“As much as I hate to say anything remotely good about your irritating ass dad, she’s right.” Bayley feigns an over-dramatic sigh before her mouth settles into a small, genuine smile. “Soulmates for sure.”
'Cause I don't wanna lose you now
I'm lookin' right at the other half of me
The vacancy that sat in my heart
Is a space that now you hold
Another transition to another clip that reveals Cameron, Melina, and Mickie, also at the Warehouse, which instantly has Solana convinced that the kids must have asked everyone to meet them there.
That faction of Solana’s friend group only attends the Warehouse for fight nights and major matches, primarily when Roman is fighting, and even then, they’re more there for her than for the actual fights.
And just like the last two times, the same question is presented, but the timbre of Nic’s deep voice is heard instead of Lina’s much lighter, softer one. Mickie is the first to answer in the way that only Mickie would.
“Hot.”
Nic’s exasperated sigh makes Solana smile. “Aunt Mickie.”
Cameron, however, quickly jumps in with her own answer accompanied by a soft smile. “Inspiring.”
Melina casts her a sideways glance, playfully nudging her. “You make them sound like motivational speakers.”
She shrugs, pushing her braids back over her shoulder. “I mean, Solana kind of is.”
It’s hard for Solana to pinpoint exactly what part of what she’s watching affects and impacts her the most. The words. The participants. The effort her children have clearly put in to make all this happen, and in such a short period of time, it seems. Each compliment, however, seems to do something to her. Lessens just a little bit the weight she’s carried with her nonstop the past two weeks.
But she's tuned back in, resisting the desire to look over at Roman who’s also watched quietly thus far, as Mickie makes a ‘pfft’ sound. “Roman isn’t.” She rolls her eyes, lifting her hand to examine her nails. “He’s the meanest person I know.”
“Mickey,” Melina mutters, gesturing to the camera. “That’s his dad.”
“Oh my God, it’s not a secret. Literally everyone knows Roman is mean.” She throws her hands up, looking away, gasping. “Here. You.”
Confusion dwells as the footage becomes shaky before the camera refocuses on an unfamiliar face, but he wears a solid black shirt with a familiar, red insignia on the right side, just above his pectoral muscles.
Bloodline.
However, Solana’s guess would be he’s not of the…..field type. Perhaps something related to tech. Slim build, greasy hair, some strings clinging to his forehead, and the way he pushes his thick rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose as well as the overall startled expression all but confirm it.
There are numerous positions available throughout the Bloodline, and despite popular misconception, not all of them require the ability to maim and kill. There are many other roles that need fulfilling, some of which include sitting behind a desk.
This man is clearly a desk type.
“What’s your name?” Mickie asks but immediately waves away as if physically pushing her initial query to the side in place of what’s most relevant. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Isn’t Roman Reigns an asshole?”
“Mickie!”
Another smile appears on Solana’s face as the nervous expression on the man’s swiftly morphs into something of horror. His widened eyes and dilated pupils magnified 10x over.
“The—the Tribal Chief?” His eyes switch to the camera, slightly above the frame, which Solana would guess is him realizing just who is holding said camera. He gulps. “No. N—no. The—the Tribal Chief is a great man—”
“Okay, that’s enough.” A quiet laugh actually spills over when Mickie literally shoves the man away, prompting outcry from Cameron and Melina. “See, even strangers are afraid of him. Why?” She mouths she word, sound absent but lips easily readable. “Asshole.”
“Ignore her.” Solana watches Melina shake her head when Nic refocuses the camera on her, and even before she can fix her mouth to say it, Solana just knows. Can tell by the gleam in her eyes what the answer is.
“Amor.”
Love.
Additional clips interviewing closest family and friends continue to flash across the screen, but Solana feels frozen in place and time from that word. A word that so deeply encompasses so much of her life. Of her relationship.
Carved into her, metaphorically and physically. The latter of the two further emphasized when she realizes her hand is placed against her chest, fingers covering the black and red ink near her clavicle.
Her tattoo.
The one she got for Roman.
For them.
She swallows, emotion continuing to build as the lyrics burn into her soul.
Show me how to fight for now
And I'll tell you, baby, it was easy
Comin' back here to you once I figured it out
You were right here all along.
Except the emotion only extrapolates when unexpected participants fill up the flat screen TV.
Aubrey, Tavita, and RJ are sitting at the table she recognizes from being the one in their shared playroom. Naturally, all three are wiggly, but only Aubrey is smiling happily. RJ and Tavita instead carry pouts and scowls that remind her so much of….of Roman.
Roman
“Okay, guys—”
Koa’s voice is cut off by a whining, pouting Aubrey as she reaches up with her arms. Tavita and RJ present a question Solana can’t entirely make out. “Can you hold me?”
A heavy sigh makes her chuckle as she wipes at her eyes. Koa offers, in the nicest voice he can, she’s certain, a delayed acceptance. “After, Aubrey.”
Kai’s irritated voice sounds from elsewhere, most likely behind Koa, with his arms crossed and frustration written all over his face. Neither of her twin boys have ever been very good with….little kids. “Why does she always want to be held?”
“I don’t think she knows how to use her legs.”
“Leave her alone. She’s only three.” Aria snaps, and it causes the tears to spill over at a faster, heavier rate. All the kids. All of her kids partook in this, the older ones handling the filming with her younger kids partaking in the answering portion. Hence why she would guess this interviewing of the OG’s 2.0 would be the last set. “And would you two shut up? I don’t want to have to edit this out.”
“Guys.” Kai cuts in, forever the one to keep everyone focused. “Do you know what RoSo is?”
It’s a shared answer with a loud “yeah!” coming from all three.
“Who is RoSo?”
Again, another joint answer, naturally, RJ’s answer differing from that of his technical aunt and uncle.
“Mommy and daddy!”
“Grandpa and abuela!”
Solana sniffles, smiling at the kids’ enthusiastic replies, Aubrey clapping happily. And for the first time since the start of the video, Solana’s eyes drift over to the other side of the room where Roman sits on the edge of the sofa. Leaned over, his hands fisted together over his mouth, brows furrowed and and focused on the screen with the same level of intensity and intrigue that’s sat with her from the moment the video started.
It makes her heart swell.
“That’s right.” Aria giggles and gasps dramatically. “And how do you feel about RoSo?” A beat. “Do you guys love RoSo?”
That final question, however is what really evokes the biggest smile, laughs, and glee from the children with a loud, unanimous “yes!”
The timing is synced perfectly, it seems, as the final refrain begins and all of the clips fill the screen, one by one, sounds muted to allow the music to play louder and without interruption. But it’s when the post-chorus begins that Solana nearly loses it.
“Oh my God.”
Clips of herself and Roman.
From their wedding in Mexico shortly before the girls were born. Solana smiling and holding onto his arm.
Several from their vow renewal ceremonies over the year.
Her dancing playfully as he spins her around and tugs her against him, craning his head down to kiss her shoulder, her own over his forearm. Smiling.
Them in the pool, him holding her as she smiles down and kisses him. Right before he squeezes her ass under the water, prompting her to gasp and swat at his shoulder.
Of her in the kitchen cooking and him sneaking up to hug her from behind. Her hand over her chest, smile on her face and head tilted back to cradle the back of his head as he kisses her.
Roman sitting at the table talking to the kids, giving them one of his many lectures, hand gestures and all. Solana behind him, nodding and playfully mimicking his non-verbals. The amused smile on Leya’s face giving her away as Roman turns to look at her. Her expression immediately dropping, eyes widening with faux innocence. Lighthearted mockery veiled by her quickly kissing his temple and darting away.
Them on the beach, her giggling and attempting to run only for his long legs to easily allow him to catch her. Though the original audio is muted to allow for Timberlake's volalization, Solana can hear her laughter through the screen as he picks her up and spins her back around.
Hospital footage from several of the kids’ births. Roman sitting at the edge of the hospital bed, holding their baby, her peering over his shoulder.
Him holding her against him as she leaned her forehead into his chest, squeezing his arms while he swayed gently with her to ease the pain and discomfort from her contractions.
Her standing between his open legs, comb in hand as she parted his hair while saying something to the kids only to jump when his hands lifted to her waist, clearly squeezing playfully. The smile on her face as she looked down and captured a kiss before gently tugging at his beard before resuming.
Roman's head back, lips slightly parted as she was curled into him, hand on his chest. On the family's private jet, clearly on the way home from one of their vacations. Both of their eyes shut as they stole a rare moment of the peace and quiet needed for a quick nap.
So many clips.
So many stolen moments, some of which, she hadn't even realized her kids captured on video.
So many memories.
By the time, it’s finished, Solana can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t anything. She’s overwhelmed and filled with an abundance of unnamed entities that have her heart heavy, her stomach tight, and her hand over her chest. It’s a trick of the mind, she’s certain, but she can almost feel the thud of her heart against her shaky palm. Her eyes burn and jaw trembles. It’s only as the sight ahead of her becomes blurry and the weight travels down to her legs that she has to move.
Has to find escape, her legs carrying her out of the living room and to the back of the townhouse, through the kitchen and out the back sliding door.
Her vision remains disrupted, big gasps of breath taken to inhale as much of the fresh air as she can handle, but it’s a shaky process. Her inability to regulate her breathing fueled by the sob making its way up the back of her throat. She continues to walk, feet carrying her into the patch of grass the outlines the patio and recently uncovered pool.
The same grass that cushions her knees when she falls to the ground, one hand over stomach, the other covering her mouth as the sob finally breaks through the surface. She’s doubled over, emotions overflowing and manifesting in the way she wails loudly. Intermittent gasps and sharp intakes of breaths as crying battles with the crippling somatic sensations that feel an awful like the early stages of a panic attack.
It most likely is one, too.
It’d be the third one she’s had over the past week.
But new sensations, different yet familiar, gradually seep in and manage to de-escalate. A gentle touch, fingers grazing against her arms. A gentle tug that has her back against against something firm but soothing as the hands shift to where solid, strong arms circle her waist. Solana’s hands naturally fall on Roman’s forearms that secure and lock her to him.
It makes her stomach twist tighter and tears fall harder.
Neither stop her, however, from uttering the first real, authentic words to him since their disastrous therapy session. Any interactions and conversations since then have been forced, fake, and inauthentic.
There’s nothing inauthentic about the heartbroken words that she manages to force out in between gut wrenching crying. “I’m sor—I’m sor—”
“Sol—”
“We’ve—we’ve built a life t—together.” It’s a life she never envisioned for herself. Before Roman, Solana didn’t see herself making it to thirty. But because of him, she’d had her first set of kids by thirty. “I can’t lose—that. I can’t lose you.”
Despite the tightness in her chest and the way her eyes burn from how much she’s cried over the past few two weeks, she manages to channel enough strength to turn to look at him.
It’s like looking at herself. A different side of herself. Harder, stronger, firmer. A pillar. The other and best parts of her in so many ways.
His glossed eyes burn into her, hand lifting to palm her cheek. “Solana—”
“You’re my best friend.” She sniffles, shaking her head as his thumb brushes away her tears. “I don’t know how to do life without you, Roman, and the fact that one day, a day that's sooner rather than farther, is a reality that I will have to face terrifies me. I don’t—" Another deep, sharp intake of breath that makes her chest tighten and shoulders slump once more. "I should have told you about the pregnancy."
"Sol—"
"I hated—hated lying to you. I—I shouldn't have, but I—I thought if I could—if I could spare you from feeling that pain, then—then I was going to do that for you. All you've ever done is protect me, and I—I wanted to be the one to protect you for once. "But in the grand scheme of things, it doesn't really matter anymore. It was selfish of her to keep such a thing from Roman. Yes, just as she stated, she wanted nothing more than to protect her husband the way he'd always protected her. Intentions, however, matter not in the face of the outcome and reality. She was wrong, and there's no way around that. Plain and simple.
She bites down on her bottom lip, realizing that this is the moment to lay it all out. Good, bad, whatever it may be, Roman is more than deserving of the truth. He always was.
"For almost twenty years, there wasn't a single day where I wasn't haunted by the —the memories of my rape or—or my mother's murder, and sometimes—sometime both." Solana manages a shaky breath, powering through it all. "I couldn't help it. Couldn't control it. But that…that I could. I—I know you don't believe me, but I hadn't thought about it in years, Roman." She lifts her eyes to his once more, having to push back the next wave of tears just beyond the horizon. "When—when we got pregnant with Nicky, when we had him, I pushed it so far to the back of my mind that it wasn't until we were arguing—"
And just like in the days following both the discovery and the loss, an immense weight on her chest and in her heart. That weighs her down and makes her desperate to reach for something. For someone. Because there wasn't a day that passed that Solana didn't want to tell Roman, didn't want to share the truth as to why they couldn't be intimate. What'd happened. What they'd lost.
But she didn't. And that is a mistake she will have to carry with her for the rest of her life. A mistake that she'll regret for the rest of her life.
Looking at him once more, seeing the emotion dancing in his eyes, a rare display and reflection of vulnerability that's never felt stronger, Solana is overcome once more.
“I love you.”
A combination and accumulation of everything that’s transpired over the past two weeks. Emotions that have deprived her of peace, stripped her of calm and layered her with the weight of loss.
Solana’s children have always been her greatest source of joy, but the fact of the matter is that she has them because of him. Because of Roman.
And as frustrated and upset as she’s been with him, that she was, the bulk of her emotions hasn’t been anger.
It’s been hurt.
A type of pain that she hasn’t experienced in years. Old wounds gradually and torturously ripped open that, prior to this, she was sure she’d healed from. A level of unhealthy codependency.
She would never ever do anything to hurt herself. Would never do that to her kids, nor does she have any desire to not be alive.
But….
There’a sick, twisted feeling that’s sat with her since that session. Since Roman more or less, and maybe she did, too, confirm that their marriage is over. A feeling she hasn't experienced since before he entered her life. Before he turned her existence into living. And just the thought of that living not including him in any sort of capacity….it's something she can't bear.
She can’t. It's why her initial approach to the deeper reason as to why she reacted so strongly to learning of his stroke was traded in for another heavy truth that needed to be addressed. Upsetting to discuss, of course, but not nearly debilitating as that truth.
"I know…" She closes her eyes, hand over his that's still on and hasn't left her face. Same with his intense stare and the presence of his body before her as they remain on the ground, unmoving and frozen in space and time. "I know you're upset with me, and—and that you don't want to see me, s—"
"Solana."
It's not like it's the first attempt he's made to speak in the midst of her verbal catharsis, but something about the pleading undertone of his deep voice penetrates through her dense wall of contrition, regret, and remorse. She blinks away the next set of tears, incapable of ignoring the wave of relief that stems from him looking at her, touching her even, in a way he hasn't in weeks. His regard and disposition towards her, as well as hers towards him, have been nothing short of frigid. But the warmth felt from his touch, seen in his face, and heard in his voice almost instantly melts away the icebergs that formed perimeters around her heart.
And perhaps maybe his.
One hand dips to her waist as Solana realizes at some point in the midst of her sentiment fueled soliloquy, he'd angled them so that her body was facing his. The press of his fingers into her skin as he gently tugged her close made something thud in her chest. A precursor for what would follow following his next statement.
His eyes narrow, gleaming with intensity and adoration she hadn't realized she'd been craving and yearning for so deeply. The absence of his affection has been a sort of torture she hadn't realized she was gradually succumbing to in the midst of their impasse. "All I see is you." Her lips part as a shaky exhale is lost in the midst of her anguish and relief at words that carry more weight than anyone outside of herself and the man in front of her could ever know or understand. "You said you can't lose me, right?" The faintest, smallest hint of a smile weighed down by reciprocated sentiment is preceded by the way he shakes his head in a small, subtle motion. "Well, that makes two of us, cause I can’t be without you, either.”
The combination of the words, the emotions, and the echoing of her own vulnerable confession, is what forces the next wave to the surface. And Solana will never deny that there's a continued theme of selfishness as she throws her body against his, allowing him to hold and cradle the back of her head as she sobs into his chest. Recognizes that there's certainly some level of relief he also feels at this devastating rough patch of theirs finding some sort of path to resolution in comparison to the alternative that was dangerously close to being the final decision. But it, if she had to guess, doesn't outweigh what weight is pulled from off her as he once again reiterates his love for her.
"Tell—tell me—" she hiccups, grasping at his shirt once more. "Tell me what to do to fix this. I'll do—I'll do anything, Roman. Just….just tell me what you need me to do." And she means it. Whatever frustration and anger still lingers towards his concealment of the stroke is heavily outweighed by her desire to heal. To fix.
Whatever it takes.
"We need to get away," he finally answers and pulls back to look down at her. She continues to hold onto his shirt, as if release means releasing him as well. Never. Roman lifts his hand to stroke the top of her head. "This weekend. Leya and Rashad can watch Aubrey and Tavita." Solana nods, her willingness to blindly accept not even allowing her to consider who would watch their youngest set of kids. But of course, Roman is already several steps ahead. He's always been the one to plan and arrange so she doesn't have to. Always done everything he can to make her life as easy as possible.
But ease doesn't exist in her world without him.
She can't imagine a world without him.
"And we'll talk," he continues. Her eyes flutter shut once more when he lies his forehead against hers, minty breath fanning her face. "Okay?"
In perhaps most settings, the promise to "talk" would ignite a massive wave of anxiety. But for Solana, it's exactly what she needs to hear. Exactly what they need to do. Should have done a long time ago. Such a simple but powerful necessity to maintain and sustain a marriage. A marriage she's not willing to give up on. She won't.
She can't.
Whatever it takes.
Nodding in acknowledgement, she can't stop herself from moving her arms around him, holding him as another round of tears accompany her heartfelt, "I love you."
Her eyes clench shut once more as he drops his hand to the small of her back, voice tight and thick. "I love you, too, Solana. I always have, and I always will."
Just realized Father’s Day is this weekend and it made me think about how the next “Without You” chapter will have a time jump, therefore we won’t get to see Joe’s first Father’s Day. 🥲🥲🥲 Can we at least know what Reader and Callie did for him?
a/n: this ended up way longer than i anticipated....as per always. hope it delivers though, friend! 😭🫶🏼
Joe senses the differences before he can make out the specifics. The absence of Y/N's up under him, his tatted arm wrapped around your body, specifically your growing baby bump. The lack of your quiet, soft snoring that's increased since your pregnancy. Even your scent. The way you've lathered your body in rich cocoa butter for as long as he's known you, but especially with, again, your pregnancy.
It's all noted before he hears it. Hears the not so quiet "whispering" and slightly elevated sound of giggling. And then audio shifts to motion. A weight on the mattress that barely registers but is enough for someone as adept as himself to pick up on.
Joe has to force himself to keep his eyes shut and small smile on his face at a minimum. It's a growing, arduous task, however, as her giggling increases and he feels her little hands on his face. Messing with his hair. And it's when she gives a small tug at one of his curls that he realizes she's trying to snag his attention.
Mission accomplished.
He allows a few seconds to pass before Callie's giggles morph into a loud gasp and even louder laughter when he opens his eyes and grabs a hold of her. A mass of her voluminous, kinky, curly hair partially obscuring her smiling face when he turns over on his back, keeping her on top of him.
"Daddy!"
As Callie falls forward and wraps her arms around his neck, Joe takes a moment to soak it all in. To soak her in. And despite the way she holds him close and tight, it's the word that does it for him.
Daddy
Joe isn't sure he'll ever get over hearing it. Even when she types it, messaging him with her tablet, it's impossible for him to contain his smile. That warmth in his chest. His accomplishments career wise have cemented his place in the GOAT conversations and Hall of Fame.
But being a dad....that will be his legacy.
And it all started with her.
Callie lifts her head as he pushes her hair back, granting him a clear view of her adorable face and cheery grin. "I was sposed' to surprise you, daddy!"
He makes a sound and winks playfully. "Guess I surprised you, huh?"
"Nooooo," she whines. His smile deepens. She shakes her head, making his hand further intertwine in her hair, fingertips against her scalp. "That's not the plan, daddy!"
At that, Joe's eyes narrow lightly. "What plan?"
He watches her eyes go wide as she slaps her hand over her mouth. "Ummmm."
"Callie...."
But she's fast, sitting up and reaching for his hand that was in her hair. She starts to move back, pulling at him and groaning from the tremendous amount of effort she's exuding in a task she'll never complete. "Come on, daddy! You gotsa' get up!"
Joe rolls his eyes, eventually granting her request. Naturally, she's his shadow the minute he opens the bathroom door after pissing. Reaches for him to pick her up as he places her on the counter, her legs dangling as she goes on and on about one of her little shows while he completes the rest of his morning routine.
Waking up to Y/N being MIA already keyed him in that something was up, but it's the waking up to find his daughter in bed with him, trying and failing to wait for him to awake organically, that has him stumped.
He hopes you're not trying to surprise everyone with breakfast again. He really doesn't feel like hearing those damn smoke detectors.
But as Callie once again shows that she's your daughter, constantly looking back while holding his hand and guiding him through the house and to the kitchen, suspicion settles into something else.
Primarily when Callie breaks away and runs over to where Y/N stands in the middle of said kitchen with a smile on you pretty face, one hand on the small of your back and the other rubbing your pregnant belly. You're wearing one of his old Georgia Tech shirts that's stretched over your bump and a pair of his basketball shorts. A little thing, but something he loves.
That reminds him of back in the day when you would "sneak" and keep some of his clothes before he just stayed intentionally leaving them behind for you. It always felt like cementing his place in your life.
As Calista turns around, arms lifted up in celebration, he realizes she's wearing one of his merch shirts. "Surprise!"
A word that's never been more fitting.
Joe isn't sure where to look first or where to allow his eyes to settle long enough for him to grasp what he's seeing. The table filled with an array of his favorite breakfast items, including the steaming mug of coffee waiting for him at his seat at the head of the table. The multi colored balloons that read "Happy Father's Day" in a variety of manners. But it's the banner stretched across the top row of cabinets above the stove that takes the cake.
5 Days of Fatherhood
While he would guess you helped her with spelling, given lack of errors, he can see that it's in Callie's handwriting, which makes it that much more special.
It's all special though, truly.
Shocking and slightly confusing, too.
Hence the way he slowly steps forward, looking between you and your oldest. "What is all this?"
Y/N is visibly prepared to answer when Callie beats you to it. "It's for Father's Day, daddy! We gotsa' celebrate all the Father's Days!" While her answer is appreciated, it lacks the specifics required to wane Joe's confusion. He knows that Father's Day is this Sunday. It's something, if he's being honest, he's been more excited about than his own birthday that passed just about a month ago.
His first father's day. As a husband, too.
Nothing could beat that.
But it's when Callie shuffles over to the table and pulls off a sheet of paper that she lifts and hands to him when she runs back over that it finally hits him.
As he looks at the drawing that depicts himself and a small baby next to him with an arrow pointing to said baby that leads to a thought bubble.
Baby Me!
Attached with a paperclip is a photo of Callie as a baby. A newborn. She couldn't have been more than six months.
It's not everything, but it's enough for him to finally start to put the pieces together.
It's Wednesday. 5 days away from Father's Day. Callie just turned five. She doesn't want to just celebrate this Father's Day. She wants to celebrate all of the Father's Day that he's missed.
It's a puzzle finalized when you finally break your silence.
"I wanted to let her decide how we celebrate Father's Day, and this is what she chose." Y/N starts to walk over as Joe swallows back the emotion when Callie tugs on his shirt. He looks down at her.
She peers up at him with those big eyes that always remind him of o you. "You've always been my daddy." Her soft voice and the way it dips almost nervously at the end makes his stomach turn. "Right?"
Your hand on his arm as you stand beside him furthers the emotion that threatens to boil over. An immense amount of pride, joy, and happiness he's not sure he's ever felt before. At one point, this was all he wanted. Was to be a father. To have a family. But after devastating loss after loss, he'd just accepted that that wasn't in the cards for him. He'd accepted that it was never going to happen.
But he was wrong. So....so wrong.
And God, has he never been more fucking happy to be wrong. Joe reaches you the drawing and bends down just enough to pick up Callie. Once more, she moves her arms around his neck and holds him tight.
He closes his eyes and kisses her cheek. "Always, baby." A beat. "Always.
Please have a moment of silence for the people who were killed instead of freed when news of emancipation finally reached the furthest corners of the american south.
have another moment for the ledgers, catalogs, and records that were burned and the homes that were destroyed to hide the presence of very much alive and still enslaved people on dozens of plantations and homesteads across the south for decades after emancipation.
and have a third moment for those who were hunted and killed while fleeing the south to find safety across the border, overseas, in the north and to the west.
black people. light a candle, write a note to those who have passed telling them what you have achieved in spite of the racist and intolerant conditions of this world, feel the warmth of the flame under your hand, say a prayer of rememberance if you are religious, place the note under the candle, and then blow it out.
if you have children, sit them down and tell them anything you know about the life of oldest black person you've ever met. it doesn't have to be your own family. tell them what you know about what life was like for us in the days, years, decades after emancipation. if you don't know much, look it up and learn about it together.
This is Juneteenth.
white people CAN interact with this post. share it, spread it.
author’s note: was feeling crappy about how long updates for 'without you' take and decided to write this. it was an on the spot thing, so don't be expecting anything spectacular. also, i wanted it to be fluffy and angsty, but idk, reader and joe so nasty idk how to write them not being nasty. 😭
pairing: plussized!mistress!black!reader x roman reigns (joe)
warnings: angst. fluff. smut. vaginal penetration. oral (male and female receiving) dirty talk. unprotected sex. slight anal play. infidelity. they're just freaks. idk what else to say.
word count: 2.5k+
song inspo: ❝don't forget about us❞ by the mariah carey
credit: photos from pinerest // dividers by @/cafekitsune
Joe’s eyes flip open as he lowers his head just enough to focus on you. Blue locking with brown, but it’s the way his long, dark hair lays over his shoulders and across his chest that temporarily distracts you. Flashbacks of those beautiful tresses intertwined and locked between your fingers as you rode his face and once more as he fucked you up against the bathroom counter upon his arrival to the hotel exciting you for the next round.
Never mind the brief pang of soreness in between your legs. Inner thighs still damp, wet, and sticky from the latest round. 69. Hence the way you’re laid on your side, head propped up by your elbow towards the edge of the bed while he’s sat up against the headboard. The cream sheets covering his lap but not hiding the outline of his thick dick that you can already tell is slowly starting to harden once more.
Good.
You wanna feel him come in your mouth at least one more time before you two call it a night.
“What?”
His deep voice breaks you from the silence of the room and swirling of NSFW thoughts.
You roll your eyes. “I said you’re shy.” Your fingers tap against the sheets that you lazily pull to cover a portion of your exposed hip solely to shield your nude body from the chill of the room. The heat accumulated through frenzied fucking is starting to wane. “It’s cute.”
He chuckles and lifts his arm, one hand behind his head as he reclines deeper against the headboard you’re almost certain is one more round away from putting a hole in the wall. You make a mental note to tell him to put a pillow behind it before you two go at it again. “And you got this from what?”
“It’s an observation.” You shrug. “I mean, I noticed it a while ago, but I was watching you tonight interact with some of your fans—”
“Emphasis on some.”
A pause is taken solely to store the comment away for later revisiting. “And I could tell you were out of your element. Almost uncomfortable. You’re clearly introverted.”
Given that you’ve been to a handful of his shows already, it’s an observation you’d made relatively early on. But something about tonight, seeing the almost indecision he presented with in some of the interactions with fans like yourself that were granted a chance to meet him, it more or less confirmed it.
“Don’t worry,” you added, bitting down on your bottom lip. “I think it’s cute.”
“Cute?”
You adjust your body, fully aware of how his eyes temporarily shift to your dark nipples with a renewing hunger. “Yeah, I mean, it’s not often you meet a fine ass man with a big dick and every reason to be a cocky son of a bitch have your disposition. It’s nice.”
Joe makes a sound, eyes shutting once more. “I like to get a read on people before I open up, I guess.”
“That makes sense. I can’t relate, but—”
“Yeah, shy is a word I would never use to describe you. Not really me, either, but—”
“Oh, you’re definitely shy, Mr. Anoa’i,” you snort, pointing to yourself as if he can see it. “But me? Naw. For what? I’m fine as fuck. I have no reason to be.”
And neither does he, but that’s just him, so you’ll leave it be.
You watch the way his eyes open and full lips—those same lips you can still feel sucking and slurping on your clit like he’d been waiting for it all day—stretch into a sly smile. “You always been this confident?”
“Hell yeah.” His grin widens, as you list it off with all the ease in the world. “I’m pretty as hell, ass fat, titties big, and my pussy is top tier?” It’s that last one that makes him chuckle, something flashing in those blue contacts that, right now, you’re not a fan of. “Baby, God didn’t make me this fine for me to be on some shy shit.”
Nor insecure, because if there’s one thing you’ve never been able to relate to is big girls struggling with body insecurity. You understand it, sure, but it’s never once been a struggle of yours. You’ve never once looked in the mirror, fully clothed or butt ass naked, and didn’t like what you saw. Maybe…maybe once or twice, but nine times out of ten, nothing has ever reflected back except a bad bitch.
And when people make comments about fat girls and bigger bodies, it always makes you laugh, snort, roll your eyes, or a combination of them all. Because at the end of the day, no man has ever put you out of the bedroom, and no one ever will cause the fuck you look like granting a lame ass nigga premier pussy when his dick ain’t even big enough to not fall out when you bouncing on it?
“That’s one of the first things that attracted me to you, you know.” You look over at him as he starts to dance those talented fingers of his up your calf. “Your confidence.”
“Not my tits?”
“Those, too.”
You playfully kick him. He chuckles. “I’m serious. I love how you’re unapologetically yourself. Like you don’t give a fuck what anyone else thinks.”
“That’s cause I don’t.” Never have. Never will. As long as you’re good with you, your mama is proud of you, and you do right in the eyes of the Lord, everyone else is irrelevant. “And neither should you, you know.”
Your interest in wrestling prior to ever even meeting Joe was nothing close to the fanatic level. You still enjoyed it as an adult, but not nearly as much as you did when you were a kid. But you knew enough to know about the basic facts and major storylines. Even more, you knew enough to know how massively pushed Joe, Roman, was being right now. Unfortunately, the push against him by the fans seems just as strong.
If not stronger.
It was one thing for him to briefly mention certain things, or for a clip to come across your Instagram feed. But it was entirely different to see these things in person. To hear them.
Some of the cruel, hurtful, awful things hurled at him. And if it’s not words, then it’s items. And the boo’s. God, it’s hard for you to tell which is worse and which pisses you off more. On more than one occasion you’ve had to stop yourself from catching a charge and causing a scene. You’ve always had the golden rule of never ever fighting over a man, but they were pushing it.
And it wasn’t even for the traditional reasons women throw hands behind their ain’t shit niggas. It was….it was just wrong. To treat Joe the way some of these “fans” do is borderline inhumane. It makes you sick to your stomach.
But if you feel this way as someone who hasn’t even known the man for a whole year, who’s not even the one being crucified the way he is, you can’t imagine how it must be for him.
He doesn’t talk about it a whole lot—save that lil’ comment from a few minutes prior—but you don’t know any human being who wouldn’t be at least a little affected by such hate.
Especially when it’s unwarranted.
“Only miserable ass people with dry pussies and micro penises come at someone so hard for just doing their damn job,” you continue, moving to sit up on the bed, reaching for his shirt to pull over your body. It’s more than certain to be ripped off before the end of the hour, but there’s something about his scent….hence why you may or may not have started to hoard a collection of his items back at your place. “It’s pathetic, and it says everything about them and nothing about you, Joe.”
His gaze remains on you as you climb across the bed and straddle his lap. His hands are on your hips as yours go to play with the ends of his long hair. “I’m serious.”
He chuckles quietly. “So are they.”
You’re quick with the rebuttal, flicking his chest. “Well, they’re fucking idiots, and fuck you look like factoring in the opinions of the musty and unloved?”
The smile you hadn’t realized briefly disappeared is returned. “The what?”
“I thought it was maybe just the show we met at, but these folks stank. Are they all allergic to Dial and deodorant or something?” It’s both a rhetorical and serious question. As someone who’s always prided yourself on smelling good, the constant assault by the funk of these unwashed people will always be the biggest “con” of attending his shows. It’s why you mostly prefer to stay backstage these days. “Just nasty. Literally and figuratively.”
Once more, he shakes his head and lifts his hands to your back, tugging you closer. Your arms wrap around his neck as his smile dims and eyes narrow softly. “You’re really good at this, you know?”
Your brow lifts as you once again start to twirl curly locs around your fingers. “You’re gonna have to be more specific, big boy. I’m good at a lot of things.”
“That’s true.” He offers zero disagreement before supplying the answer. The delivery surprisingly soft for his deep voice. “At making me feel better.”
It takes you by surprise only for a second. Talking to people is something that’s always come natural and easy to you. Offering encouragement, however, in an effective and actually helpful way has never been as simple as some might think. Far too often people think that they’re being helpful only to be making things minimally to significantly worse. You’ve always done your best to avoid causing unintended harm, some of which has been helped greatly by your job. Kids always require a higher level of delicacy than adults.
But you’d also be lying to yourself if you tried to deny that there’s always been something so….natural about speaking with Joe. Easy. The conversation never grows stale and the flow never feels stagnant. Conversations with men in general have always been hit or miss for you. Far too often, whatever appeal existed is squashed the moment they open their mouth and say some stupid shit.
Not Joe.
He’s as well spoken as he is thoughtful. That subtle pause before he answers indication of actual pondering vs automatic verbal release. You’ve always appreciated that about him. That he actually thinks before he speaks. A rare characteristic to find with men. Especially fine ass men.
I wonder if that’s one of the things his wi—
Almost instantly, you shove it away. That thought that often tries to force its way to the surface, having found success a few times. But the more time you spend with Joe, the closer you two become, the easier it is to silence said thoughts.
And maybe, just maybe, you’ll be able to silence the voice entirely.
“Well….” You trail off in conjunction with your fingers trailing down his chest with one hand, the other reaching behind you. “There are several ways I know how to make you feel better.”
His gaze shifts and jaw clenches when you find him. Warm and pulsing in your palm, your thumb glides over the slit on his dickhead. Your saliva production quadruples at the anticipation of having him in your mouth and pussy once more. “You wanna clarify?”
You start to gently stroke him up and down, aiding in the revival of his erection that’s almost entirely returned.
Except, once again, you’re reminded that this man matches your energy in a way no one else has before. He eases his hand under the shirt, reaching and playing with your titties before returning down south to dance his fingers down your pelvis, stopping just when he’s about to spread your pussy lips apart.
“The thing that makes you feel just as good.”
His smug statement, however, draws your playful glare as you continue to work your hand around his thick length. “Don’t get cock—”
A sharp gasp escapes your mouth when his other hand moves to the back of your head, his fingers intertwined in your kinky coils you pulled up and out of the way the minute he told you to get on your knees before you two even made it to the shower. You bite down on your lip, feeling your pussy flutter and pulse when he roughly yanks you towards him. “Exactly.” Your eyes flutter shut as you start to writhe on top of him when his other hands continues to toy with your slick opening. “Stop talking and start sucking.”
The joy at his command is matched only by the glee you feel at having your desire fulfilled. He doesn’t need to tell you twice.
You pull away and tug his shirt off, tossing it on the floor before you twist your body to the position that preceded the brief respite. You scoot and slide your body back as much as you can, feeling the way he also begins to ease down on the bed so he’s on his back. Your eyes gleam with hunger and need as you lick your lips at the sight of his pretty ass dick. Fully erect, tip flushed, and pre-cum seeping out the slit.
A muffled groan is released as you lean over and travel the length of his cock with your nose, inhaling the scent of him. Of both of you. Your mixed, mingled juices. The tip of your tongue traces around his dickhead and up the base as you collect as much of the remnants from the previous round before getting right to it
“Fuck, that’s it,” he groans, and it’s music to your ears. Something about being able to bring a man to such a vulnerable place while simultaneous getting off from the pleasure you receive from giving head is always gon’ be just the thing that does it for you. “Keep going, baby.”
You moan, mouth full of his dick, releasing him to kiss and suck on his balls. “Hmm. Does that feel good, big boy? You like the way I suck this big dick?”
You’re rewarded with a slap and jiggle to your ass that makes you smile before you return his length back into your mouth, eyes shutting and watering when he hits the back of your throat as you bob your head up and down, deep throating him.
“I fucking love it.” You wiggle your ass back against him when he spreads your cheeks and his tongue swipes a single line up your ass crack, tip of said tongue circling your hole. It entices another moan following the feel of his fingers spreading your pussy lips as he returns the favor, burying his face in your cunt, inhaling and groaning. “God, you taste so fucking good.”
You smile, drool seeping out the corner of your mouth as you continue to work him with your mouth. Once more a respite is evoked only as he moves his big arms around your hips and ass, clearly getting and putting you in place. “Show me how good, daddy,” you moan, palms flat and gripping at his thighs as he pulls you back so that you’re smothering his face. Good. “Eat my pussy, and tell me how good it tastes. How much you love it.”
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒𑁤 with a house full of children, all of whom are still in single digits, finding one on one time can be a challenge for roman and solana. with the younger kids down for naps and the eldest keeping themselves occupied, mom and dad sneak away for some adult only time.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𑁤 smut. dirty talk. unprotected sex. established, married couple. age gap (10yrs). roman stressed tf out.
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒𑁤 four thousand and some change (4k+)
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𑁤 roman reigns x black!oc
𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𑁤 graphic and dividers by me.
𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𑁤 we talked about this idea forever ago, and i finally started it a few weeks ago. was definitely a wild ride to write.
Solana’s glazed eyes roll back and her stomach caves inward as she arches her back off the mattress. Her fingers dig into said mattress, fisting the sheets with an unforgiving grip that’s similair to the unforgiving waves of pleasure rolling throughout her entire body.
“Roman.”
His name falling from his wife’s parted lips force Roman to rip his enchanted gaze from the motion of her big, soft breasts jutting back and forth from the intensity of his thrust to the way she writhes in visible, obvious pleasure on the bed underneath him.
It makes his dick twitch, thick pink tongue dipping from his mouth and running over his bottom lip. Makes his next thrust hit harder and dig deeper. A goal achieved when the sweet, beautiful sound of her whimpers intensify. Pleasing a woman sexually has never really been an issue for Roman. Nothing he worried about because countless experience and ratings of 10/10 across the board all but prevented any sort of insecurity in that area.
In almost all areas of his life.
But Solana has always been the exception.
From the moment she sat on his lap in that restaurant what feels like a century ago, pressed her lips together, pretty eyes dipping as she powered through nerves to issue her request, she’s been his priority.
Her pleasure has been her priority. He’s only ever wanted to make her feel good.
Most especially in the bedroom.
With everything she’s been through, she deserves that and everything more.
So to see her eyes clench shut, to feel her slick walls gripping his dick, and to watch the way she writhes with an insatiable hunger, it’s nothing short of fuel. A drug he can’t get enough of and would gladly overdose on if it means he can spend the rest of his life being with her like this.
Being in her like this.
His eyes flick down to where their bodies connect, his breath catching as the glimpse of his dick coated white, her cream gushing and dripping from her tight ass pussy. “Shit, baby,” he groans. “You creaming all over me.” He’s rewarded with another moan that brings about a smug smirk. “C’mon, sweetheart. You know I like words.”
She groans through a closed mouth, the scowl on her face making his smirk deepen. It’s seeing the way she shifts her hands to her chest, the arch in her back depending as her hands graze over and gently squeeze her breast, however, that make his breath hitch.
Triggers an idea.
“But you know what I like more?” Roman smooths his hands up and down her hips as her eyes flutter open, reflecting a haze of lust. She’s visibly dazed, mouth partially ajar, and dark eyebrows caving inward.
“Ro—”
His name abruptly lost in the quick motion of him switching their positions. It’s suddenly Roman whose back is against their soft, dark sheets and the sight of his wife upward instead of downward. He glides his hand to the back of her ass, as her own plant on his chest. Not once does his dick slip out, instead still seated inside her warmth. Her eyes latch onto his. “Papi watching his pretty girl on top.”
Solana’s swollen lips—still puffy from the way they made out fiercely during foreplay that only lasted a couple of minutes before her palm was smeared with his cum as she stroked his dick to life—lift into a small smile.
She says something in Spanish as he glides his hands to the front of her, traveling up and over the folds of her stomach, her head nodding back when she starts to grind on top of him.
His pupils dilate and his jaw clenches at the feel of her nails pressing into his abs and then his own hands when she travels the length of his long arms and cages his palms against her heavy breasts. Roman finds it impossible to not buck his hips to fuck up into her, especially when the first assisted thrust makes her mouth drop open and her eyes flutter once more.
It’s also impossible to look away from her, for him to not soak in the sight that can cure and heal him on even the roughest of days.
Like those days, more often than not, that he still can’t comprehend just how the hell they ended up with seven children in under eight years. Two sets of twins, at that. With several of said kids being only a year and some change apart in age. For a man a few years shy of fifty, even with his wife being a decade younger than him, it blows his fucking mind.
But then she does that thing she does. Like she’s doing now. Where she either willingly slides herself on top of his dick or allows him to position her to where she should never leave. Moves and gyrates sensually and slowly, sometimes leaning back just enough so his eyes travel up the slope of her thick ass body and grant him the perfect view of her glistening, fat pussy lips swallowing and dripping over his big dick while she bounces up and down. Spelling her name and claiming what will always be hers.
And he gets it.
Understands fully how and why they ended up with seven kids.
Solana’s moans and whimpers amplify as her intensify subsides just enough to let him know she’s close. He can feel it in the way her pussy is clamping and fluttering around him. The bed rocks and trembles under the intensity of their sweet, sensual, steamy lovemaking. A silent witness to the most carnal of acts over the years.
“You gon’ come for me, pretty girl?” He’s rewarded with an enthusiastic nod of her head as he gently squeezes her big ass titties, weighing heavy in his palms despite her own braced on his thighs as she continues to ride him. “Gon’ let papi fill—”
“Mommy. Daddy. We’re bored. Can you play—”
The intensity of the scream of horror that erupts from Solana’s mouth is matched only by the way she quickly scrambles to move off of Roman who hisses a quiet, “shit” that’s easily drowned under the sound of the additional set of screams. Screams from the faces of their three oldest children who stand in the doorway with ajar mouths.
Lina, Leya, and Tama. Eyes as wide as saucers. Lina being the one to shove her siblings out of the way as they slam the door shut.
The minute it’s closed, however, the panic doesn’t end.
It only begins.
“Roman!” She shouts from the side of the bed, face flustered, sheet covering her body sweaty body. “I thought I told you to lock the door!”
“I did!” He shouts, running a hand through his hair, damp at the roots from his exertion. “That damn Lina must have picked the fucking lock.”
“Oh my God,” she breathes, one hand over her mouth. “That didn’t just happen." He can't tell if she's talking to him, herself, or them both. Though, in all honestly, it doesn't make much of a difference. They didn’t just walk in on us having sex.”
“Pretty sure they did,” he mutters, falling back on the bed, eyes shut. His head is suddenly pounding and the neglected pressure and weight of his still fully erect dick is a pain he can’t ignore but is forced to.
“I can’t believe this is happening.”
“It did.”
“We’ve traumatized them.”
“Sol, that’s a bit fucking dramatic.”
She gasps, one hand over her mouth. Her voice is muffled against her palm but audible, nonetheless. “They’re never going to be the same.”
“We already have them in therapy. They’ll be alright.” His shrug and perhaps dismissive comment earns him a glare that makes him roll his eyes. “Baby, come on. It’s not great, but it’s not the worse thing ever.” Surely. Surely, there are many other things he can list off the top of his head that could forever scar his children.
This isn’t one of them.
“But you know what does fucking suck?” She frowns, and he gestures to his lap, the outline of his big dick and wet spot where cum is smeared against the sheets stare back at them. “Being so close to feeling that pretty puss—”
“Roman.” She closes her eyes and runs her hand through her blown out hair. He can’t help the way his eyes drop to her chest, the outline of her chocolate nipples through the thin sheet making his mouth water and cock twitch. “Really?”
He shrugs once more, unsure where the issue lies, hence his blunt explanation. “We might as well finish—” Solana’s fist colliding with his bicep, however, silences him.
“Roman!”
“What?” He cuts his eyes, running his hand down his face. What’s done is done. What harm is there in them both finding their release before they tackle the fallout this….incident will have caused.
But it seems Solana isn’t seeing it that way.
Her pretty eyes narrow into slits that draw his gaze away from her big ass titties he’d much rather have in his mouth right now. “Our seven and six year old children just walked in on us having sex, and all you can think about is resuming?”
Perhaps he should consider his answer before providing it, but in this moment, he can’t think of any other response than what’s provided in the most casual of tones.
“Well, yes.”
It’s the wrong answer.
Solana punches and shoves at him once, twice, three times before she stands up from the bed, ranting in Spanish the entire time, the sound of the bathroom door slamming as he closes his eyes and curses lowly.
“Baby, was that a no?”
“ROMAN!”
Not a word is said. The only sound that fills the Reigns family living room is the volume of the TV turned low and Dulce in the corner playing with one of her squeaky toys, turned away from the unexpected emergency family meeting.
Lina, Leya, and Tama all sit on one sofa. The oldest with her hands squeezing the edge of the sofa. Tama kicking his legs up and down. Leya holding onto her latest Build-A-Bear that Roman gifted her when he took the girls out two weekends ago so that Solana could spend time with the boys.
Meanwhile, Solana sits next to her husband who is leaned back into the sofa with his arms crossed. A position that indicates a level of nonchalance that’s the polar opposite of his wife who is perched on the edge of the sofa, hands folded gracefully on her knees.
“Well.” She eventually clears her throat, kickstarting the conversation no parent ever wants to have. “I know….I know you guys must have questions.”
Of course they do. At seven and six, the oldest set of kids, coined the OG’s of their siblings, are never short of questions to issue to one or both parents. Leya being the exception. She’s not as vocal as her siblings, often preferring to ask hers in the form of little notes, diary entries, and whispers that follow the tug of a sleeve.
She’s like Solana. Quiet and reserved.
Lina and Tama couldn’t be any more opposite.
The eldest boy the first to ask, continuing to kick, his eyes ever so often drifting to the TV. “What were you doing?”
It’s only one of many questions to follow, however, as Lina purses her lips together. She reaches to push back a curl that’s just one of several to slip out of the bun she did herself this morning, wanting to try to do her hair on her own. A valiant effort with a subpar outcome. “And why were you guys naked?”
“Are all your clothes dirty, mami?”
“Did the clothes fairy take all your clothes?”
“Is it because we’re poor now?”
“Fucking hell,” Roman curses lowly. Solana subtly shifts her right thigh into his leg, the closest thing she can do without actually shoving him in front of their children who are hitting them with a number and variety of questions they weren’t fully prepared for. Obviously. “No, we’re not poor, son.”
“Babies.” Solana manages a small smile despite the way her stomach is in knots and has been in knots from the moment the door opened and revealed her in the midst of….riding. “Mommy and daddy…..we…..well, we were playing a game.”
Lina tilts her head to the side, and Tama frowns, as if not following. Leya is the only one who’s remained silent, allowing her siblings to be her voice as she gently caresses the lilac mane of her stuffed animal. “Is that why you were sitting on top of daddy?”
Solana feels like her body is on fire. Like she accidentally hit the heat on the thermostat this morning instead of the AC. She can only imagine how flustered and reddened her face must be.
This is a mess.
“Yes,” she manages. How? She hasn’t the slightest clue. Similar to how she’s not entirely sure how to explain said game to her children who haven’t even hit double digits yet.
“What’s the game called?”
Thankfully, a lifeline is thrown as Roman decided to enter the discussion, saving his wife from Lina’s follow-up. “It’s not for kids.”
Tama’s frown deepens at the answer, his confusion written all over his adorable face. At six, he still holds a level of baby fat. Chubby cheeks and thicker limbs with a head full of hair and the best hugs for his mama. “The game is called It’s Not For Kids?”
Roman leans forward and shakes his head. “No, I’m saying the game we were playing isn’t for kids.”
Lina tilts her head to the side. “How come?”
“We’ll tell you when you’re older.”
“How old?”
“Very old.”
“Like you?”
Roman opens his mouth, clearly to say some smart shit back to his smartass son only to quickly pivot. He looks over at his wife, his deep voice gruff and almost murmured, “don’t ask me to have no more goddamn kids.”
“Roman.”
Lina giggles. From a baby, she’s always been most entertained by Roman’s potty mouth. He’d be going off on someone over the phone as the girls sat with him in his office, in their matching bouncers, because they’ve always wanted to be by him, and she’d be smiling and babbling away. What he always feared causing them to fear him has always been the side of him that Lina especially has found most entertaining. “Daddy, you said a bad word.”
“It’s cause he’s old,” Tama supplies, leaning over and grabbing his feet as he explains to his sisters, “uncle Dwayne said old people can say bad words.”
Lina nods with agreement, as if the explanation unlocked the part of her brain that’d temporarily forgotten such important information. “That’s why mommy doesn’t say bad words. Cause she’s not old.”
Roman, however, has shifted from one question to another, finally landing on the one that’s the most pressing following their short exchange. He frowns. “How old do ya’ll think I am?”
Tama doesn’t miss a beat answering with a straight face and utmost confidence. “105.”
Solana’s quiet gasp beside him is only partially registered as his eyes widen. “A hundred—” Roman runs his hand over his face, stroking at his beard he’s almost certain is going to be entirely white before the end of this conversation. “Both of ya’ll asses are getting taken out my will.”
“Roman!”
“What’s a will?”
“Something only you will be in, Leya,” he answers with an abundance of ease. At this point, her spot is guaranteed. Aria, Nick, Koa, and Kai as well, too. But these other two hellion children of his?
Yeah, they can be taken care of by Solana’s side of the family.
“The point here,” Solana steps in, stressing the word ‘point’ and clearly wanting to get things back on track. She reaches over, hand on his knee, smile directed towards the sources of the headache Roman can feel brewing. It started when he was so fucking close to coming all in his wife until they decided to be fucking cock blockers. “—is that mommy and daddy were doing what mommies and daddies do, and it’s not for kids, but we’re sorry that you saw us.”
Leya hugs her stuffed animal closer, deciding to break the silence she’s always comfortable sat in, even from the moment she said her first word. Roman and Solana have always said Leya rests in the quiet because she knows her twin will always fill it for her. For both of them. And God has that been the truth.
“Is that the game that makes babies?”
Still reeling from his disrespectful ass children’s ridiculous ass belief regarding his age, Roman is only somewhat paying attention to Leya's question that has Solana looking, once again, like a deer in headlights.
“Umm,” she starts, engaging in the quickest creation, navigation, and finalization of a mental pros and cons list that one can mentally conjure in such a do or die moment. “Y—yes. It—it is.”
Tama’s face settles into a scowl that is reminiscent, once more, of his father who sits across from him wearing the same expression. A mirror. “You and daddy play the game a lot.”
“Is that why you have so many babies, mami?”
“She’s not having any more. I can tell you that much.”
“Roman, please,” Solana hisses, casting him a quick side glare and widening of her eyes that nonverbally implores some sort of request for cooperation vs sabotage.
“But you were just playing it.”
“It doesn’t always make a baby, Lina.” Solana explains, reviving her smile and resisting the urge to elbow her unhelpful husband. “Just….sometimes.”
“Well, how do you—”
“Look,” Roman cuts in. The shift in his voice, deeper and with a hint of irritation, draws the focus of his kids and his wife. “The deal is this. When your mom and I are in the room with the door closed and especially with it locked, you guys aren’t to come in. We told you before we went upstairs we were going to be busy and to knock if you needed something.” Tama opens his mouth, hence Roman lifting his hand to silence what he already has a rebuttal for. “You guys wanted something. You didn’t need anything, and I don’t know how the hell you can get bored when we got this big ass house and there’s three of you.”
“Your dad is right, babies.” Solana sighs. She runs her thumb over Roman’s knee, adopting a perhaps gentler approach to what is an undisputed truth. “Your bothers and sisters are down for naps. I fixed you lunch not even an hour ago and made snacks. You didn’t really need us.”
“But beyond that—” Roman gestures between the terror non-twins with his index finger. “Ya’ll gotta stop with this picking the locks shit. I get that you were young when you first stated doing it and didn’t really know better, but you guys are older and should know better by now.” He focuses his gaze especially on the eldest of his unruly children. “And I know it was you who taught your brother and sister.”
More Tama than Leya being the student, because Roman has no doubt the most well behaved of his offspring has never utilized any of the criminal like behavior taught by her sister. She’s always just been an innocent bystander. An unwilling accomplice.
Confronted with a truth she can’t deny, Lina instead pouts and crosses her arms. “But I already showed Aria and Nic!“
“You what?” And just like that, Roman’s blood pressure shoots up once more. Or maybe it’s just been up since the kids walked in on them and is just reaching levels previously unknown. “They’re only 2 and 3. How the hell did you—”
“Well, don’t teach or show them any more, okay?” Solana forces a smile and lifts her hand to caress the back of Roman’s neck, fingers brushing against the soft curls and making gentle circular motions near his scalp. A small, subtle but helpful act that always helps to calm him down, which is evidently needed given these damn kids are two more questions or statements away from giving him a stroke.
Tama is the first to fold, giving a dramatic sigh while looking at Sol. “Okay, mami.”
“I won’t do it anymore,” Lina also concedes, shoulders dropping as Leya reaches over to take her hand, offering a small smile.
It’s a sweet gesture, but Roman is still confused. “Now why the hell couldn’t ya’ll just listen when I sa—”
A semi loud buzzing sound redirects focus and causes Solana’s hand to drop from its soothing position to lean over and grab her phone. Roman peers down as she taps her fingers quickly and pulls up a familiar screen. The app that connects to the baby monitors in all of the younger kids rooms. The inside of Nicolás room with his small body sitting up in the middle of his bed, still swaddled in his Cars themed bedding. Rubbing his eyes, his dark hair ruffled and a small frown on his face, Solana hits the volume just in time for a soft “mommy” to fill the living room.
“Nicky’s up,” she says more to the kids than her husband. Locking the phone and reaching it to Roman, she stands up, his eyes briefly shifting to the back of her ass that’s curved and sitting perfectly in her skin tight shorts. “Mommy’s gotta go check on Nicky, but you guys can ask daddy any more questions you have.”
It’s that last sentence, however, that stops Roman from licking his lips and reaching to palm his wife’s nice, round ass and instead look up at her with a shade of bewilderment. “Wait, what?”
Solana turns and leans over, pressing a kiss to his cheek, whispering quickly, “you got this, papi.”
His jaw tightens. “Sol—“
Another peck to the corner of his mouth before she’s walking out to tend to their middle son.
That leaves just him with the eldest three.
The OG’s.
Except the time for them bombarding him with question after question, most of which he knows he can’t answer even remotely as well as his wife, is over as he has his own question.
“How old do you think your mom is?”
Roman is far from a stupid man. His wife being ten years his junior comes at little surprise to no one. Solana, in his opinion, has always looked a bit on the younger side. A youthful face that hasn’t changed much since the first time he laid eyes on her. Thus, he expects the guess to be on the lower end of the number spectrum.
He just couldn’t have anticipated how low.
“25.”
His jaw drops just a few inches, gaze locked between Terror Child 1 and Terror Child 2. “25?” He could see it. Sure. Again, not even forty, she’s far from old, and unlike himself, hasn’t a gray hair in sight. But it’s the large gap in age guesses that has him puzzled.
Lina nods with a big smile. “Uncle Dwayne said you bought mommy from the mommy store because she was a sweet young thing.”
“Yeah!” Tama adds enthusiastically, sharing his own horror story that has Roman’s fingers burning and itching to call and cuss out his fucking stupid ass cousin. “And cousin Zilla said you love mommy a lot cause she’s got a gyat.” Tama frowns looking between his sisters and then Roman before ultimately shrugging with defeat. “But we don’t know what any of that means.”
“They said they'll tell us when we’re older.” Leya offers the final statement with a small, innocent smile and gentle squeeze of her sister’s hand before she hugs her stuffed animal once more.
Meanwhile, Roman is back to square one. On the verge of a stroke.
There’s so much to process. So much to digest. First things first, he’s cussing out both Dwayne and Zilla. Probably firing the latter cause what the fuck?
“So let me get this straight.” Brows caved, tossing her phone on the sofa to the side of him, Roman is all hand gestures and deep scowl as he tries to make sense of the nonsense. “You think your mom is 25, but I’m 105—”
“106,” Lina interjects. “You just had another birthday when mommy was talking.”
Tama nods, face just as serious as his voice while he clarifies as if it’s the most obvious thing, “old people grow up really faster.”
Roman closes his eyes.
These. Fucking. Kids.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, leaning back into the sofa, head back as he tries to count backwards from 10. Or 100. “Go to your rooms.”
The chorus of their giddy laughter is the backdrop to his misery. How the fuck did he end up with two such fucking nightmares of children? It’s like they spend time figuring out ways to drive him fucking mad.
He keeps trying to tell Solana those two are gonna send him to an early grave, but she doesn’t believe him.
Bet she’ll believe it when he’s on his deathbed, and she’s holding his hand while the fucking Joker and Harley Quinn are standing at the edge of said deathbed asking when the bank closes.
Thoughts of revisiting the previously abandoned discussion of boarding school are interrupted when Roman feels movement. He snaps his head forward only to be met with Leya reaching for his arm as she climbs onto the sofa. Her stuffed animal set in the same spot where Solana previously sat. It’s the twinkle in her eyes, however, and the way she almost nervously lifts her hand to his face, that give him pause. Her small palm pressing gently against his cheek. The smile that grows as his beard no doubt tickles her before she leans over and wraps her arms around his neck. Just like that, all the tension and frustration melt away.
What’s left is the peace and calm. His hand on the small of her back as he returns her gesture when she pulls back just enough to look at him. Roman pushes her curls out of her face, seeing so much of Solana in her. Beyond just appearance. Leya inherited every bit of her mother, including Solana’s uncanny ability to soothe him on his darkest days.
But something tugs in his chest as he stares at her. He sees those same eyes that stared back at him with innocent wonder the first time he held her. This tiny human being who he was secretly terrified of dropping or holding too tight. Not keeping his hand in the right spot to support her neck. So many concerns and worries that’ve calmed slightly but will always remain to some degree.
And it baffles him. How quickly time has passed.
Seven. Lina and Leya are now seven.
It feels like only yesterday he and Solana were bringing the girls home for the first time, and now he can recall the way they crowded their parents when Koa and Kai were carried through the front door for the first time.
It’s fucking surreal.
He opens his mouth to return her sentiment, the I love you, daddy she murmured in Samoan as he reflected on time that seems to be moving much too quick for his likening.
And then the fucking deviants.
“Happy birthday, daddy!” Lina shouts happily, running into the living room and jumping on the sofa, as Leya giggles and leans into him. “You just turned 107!”
Tamasa, of course, is not far behind, instead standing before him with his head titled, tossing up and down the football that’s not that much bigger than his head with practiced ease. “Do you need a cane now?”
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒𑁤 mari's wedding night is something she always dreamed about. dreamed and prayed would be something special. and sharing said wedding night with her best friend and now husband, joe, is nothing short of special personified. but turns out there's a few things she didn't know about her husband. or rather one specific thing. one big, specific thing.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𑁤 18+. mdni. some sexy time. angst(?). fluff. but mostly usual mari being mari, and joe being joe who's just used to mari being mari.
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒𑁤 four thousand and some change (4k+)
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𑁤 joe anoa'i (roman reigns) x black!oc
𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𑁤 photos and roman gif from google, pinterest, and instagram. sza gif by @/totalsellout. neon divider by @/dividers-are-us. i saved the dividers for the photo set but now can't find where i got them from, so if you know, please let me know so i can credit properly!
𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐎𑁤 ❝let's get it on❞ by marvin gaye
𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𑁤 this has been asked about a lot and in honor of big ears and my sister wife, @sayyestoheav3nn, birthday, i had to finally make it happen.
“Okay, well five minutes plus another five minutes then!”
Joe runs his hand over his face and blinks a couple times before reaching for his phone to scroll through Instagram for what must be the 8th time over the past forty-five minutes. The same amount of time his now wife has been holed up in that damn bathroom. He understands fully that this night means a lot to her, and it should. It’s her wedding night.
Their wedding night.
The first night they’ll spend together as husband and wife and consummate their marriage. His first time with her, and her first time, period. Outside of knowing Mariella, arguably, better than most, he knows for women in general that this milestone carries a lot of weight.
Rightfully so.
But the fact that it’s been almost an hour since he showered and exited the bathroom wearing only his boxers, Mariella rushing past him and locking the door so she could “get ready” and her still not being ready is reaching a point beyond understandable.
Shit, at this rate, it’s going to be time for them to check out.
He’s tried to keep himself busy outside of being on his phone, something that’s never really been his thing in the first place. Observed and studied every inch of the suite her parents paid for as one of their wedding “gifts.” Both he and Ri in agreement that when finances are better, they’ll go on an actual honeymoon.
God, he can’t wait to give her that.
Grabbed the remote and turned on the TV as he shifted up the bed, leaning into the headboard while he watched some random ass show that only held his attention for a few minutes. Hell, he even grabbed the bible out the nightstand drawer and flipped the pages to the verse the pastor cited shortly before officially announcing them man and wife.
“What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder.”
But a good chunk of the time was eaten up by the uncharacteristic presence of anxiety. To say Joe is sexually experienced would be an understatement. He’s certainly gotten around in his almost thirty years on this earth. He knows exactly what he's doing between those sheets.
But never has he actually been intimate with someone that he loves. That he’s in love with. That he’s wanted nothing more than to make happy in all the ways possible.
This is Ri.
His Ri.
His wife.
Beyond that, there’s the pressure of being the one to take her virginity. If someone told him five years ago that that would be something she’d bestow and trust him—of all people—with, he’d never in a million years believe them.
Mariella has always been immensely special to him. His desire to protect and keep her safe from any and all bad things has been present since they were kids. Sparked largely by her naivety and innocence. And it’s only increased exponentially since they transitioned from friends to lovers and now husband and wife.
He knows better than anyone her trauma when it comes to relationships. Of spending so long wanting to find and be in love, to ever feel even ready or wanting enough to share such a sacred level of intimacy with another man.
Joe just can’t believe he ended up being that man.
His oath to love, protect, and take care of her will extend to the end of time—and then some.
And it all starts tonight.
“Okay!” Her shout from the other side of the door drags his attention away from lingering trepidation. “I—I think I’m ready.”
Joe clicks the lock button on this phone, waiting until it shuts off entirely, before he reaches and places it on the nightstand.
He won’t be needing it.
“Yeah?”
“Mmmhmm,” she sings, making him crack a small smile. She’s always so fucking theatrical.
He rolls his shoulder, reaching to let his hair down, already knowing that’s her preference despite also knowing he’ll need to tie it back before the night is over. Can’t have it in the way when he finally makes his way between her thick ass thighs to taste that pretty ass pussy. “So why don’t you bring your fine ass out then so I can see you?”
He plans to do a hell of a lot more than just see, but one thing at a time.
Joe snaps the hair tie against his wrist and rubs the tip of his nose with his thumb before a new sound fills the otherwise silent hotel room.
Music.
Because Ri wouldn’t be Ri if she didn’t have some sort of music to accompany what he knows for her is probably one of the biggest moments of her life thus far.
If not thee biggest.
A familiar, classic tune that makes all the sense, but it’s when the door is pushed open with loud, excessive force in conjunction with the three guitar notes at the beginning of Let’s Get In On by Marvin Gaye that makes his smile widen.
For several reasons.
Mari stands in the doorway, arms spread, palms planted on the jambs as she slowly twirls them thick ass hips of her. His eyes drink in the sight of her. The white, lace two piece lingerie set that leaves little to the imagination, her fat pussy lips almost swallowing the thin material to the point where it’s barely visible. He can only imagine what her ass looks like from the back. The top isn’t much better. Joe can make out the outline of her dark, pebbled nipples, her breast lifted and shoved together. Her stunning brown skin carries a glow that exceeds the usual as well as shimmer across her chest making her complexion glimmer and sparkle. Her hair that he knows she sacrificed a damn near whole day at the salon to get washed, blown out, and silk pressed for their wedding is down and brushes past her shoulders and chest.
But despite the salivating worthy sight of so much of that fine ass body on full display for him, it’s the smile on her bare face and the way she playfully twirls around that does something to him. Sometimes he envies her. How she goes through life with such unwavering optimism and light. There are no bad days with her.
Just happy days.
Some of his best.
He leans over, eyes darkening and voice lowering. “Come here.”
She bites down on her bottom lip, of course, taking her sweet time to continue to whine and tease him with the hypnotic view of her twirling hips. But the minute she’s close enough, he yanks her onto his lap. Joe’s eyes shut as he breathes in the scent of her. There’s no doubt in his mind that she tastes just as good as she always smells.
Mariella brings her hands to his shoulders and gestures down to her lingerie set. “You like it?”
“You know I do,” he answers. His hands smooth down her back, thumb fiddling with her bra strap as he kisses her shoulder. “It’s a shame I’m gonna end up ripping it off you in about five minutes.”
“Joseph Leati Anoa’i, you better not!” She gasps as he nestles his nose in the crook of her neck, eyes closing once more from the feel of her so close to him. Nothing is better than being with her. Nothing. “This is my wedding night lingerie. I won’t have you desecrate what will be a collectors item.”
“Fine. Whatever you want,” he agrees. He knows when to pick and choose his battles with her. Joe places another tender kiss to her jaw, his hands moving to her waist as he focuses on her. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” She whispers, batting her lashes, voice dipping suggestively. “Now, I believe it’s time for us to do the nasty.”
“Hmm.” He travels his gaze over her, hiking her up higher on his lap. “How nasty you trying to get, Mariella?”
She shakes her head, grasping at his jaw while he continues to roam every inch of her, as if trying to mark the territory he plans to explore fully and thoroughly throughout the night.
And for the rest of his life.
“It’s Ri.” She dips her head, ghosting her lips over his, her voice a soft, teasing whisper. “Mrs. Anoa’i, if you’re nasty.”
The speed in which he kisses her is inhuman. Joe fully recognizes that there’s very little easing into things. It's evident in the way he kisses her with hunger, desire, and desperation that’s grown with each passing day as their wedding date grew closer.
It took him a while to accept that he no longer saw his now wife as his adopted little sister. That she certainly wasn’t the little girl who always tagged along with him and BJ. That she was a grown woman. A grown woman with nice ass titties he’s currently palming in his big hands and a nice round ass he’s visualized more than once bouncing off his dick while he gives her backshots, her kinky coils fisted in his hand as he talks her through it.
Yes, finally freeing himself from unnecessary shackles of roles no longer relevant has definitely made this buildup something worth looking forward to. Mariella slowly grinding against him prompts him to growl against her mouth when he flips them so that she’s flat against the mattress, his big body hovering over hers.
And the sight is something to behold.
Never has he seen someone as beautiful as Mariella.
Their next kiss is slow, tender, her hands on his cheeks as her lips stretch into a bashful smile.
“No one has ever looked at my the way you do.”
Something thumps in his chest.
He lowers his head, forehead pressed against hers. “And no one else ever will.”
Joe has always been a man of his word, and regardless of it being traditional, pre-written vows cited in front of close friends and family, he meant every word.
Till death to them part.
“Baby,” she murmurs against his mouth after a few minutes of continued making out. That borderline unbearable discomfort from his growing erection further fueling his desire to make his way down her body and in between her soft thighs. Her fingers intertwined in the back of his head, gently caressing his scalp. “Move your leg.” She pouts as he kisses the corner of her soft ass lips. “It’s poking me.”
Joe stills for a moment, breaking their kiss to look down between their conjoined bodies.
He chuckles. Resumes kissing her and groping her breast, thumb playing with her nipple through the thin lace of her top. “That’s not my leg, baby.”
Mariella frowns into their kiss as he shifts his mouth to her cheek and jawline when she tilts her head down. “Well then what….” Joe is about to drag his mouth to her chest, salivating at the thought of freeing her breast from that pesky ass top when she gasps. “What the—” His efforts are completely stopped, however, when he feels her fingers tug at the waistband of his boxers. “Oh my God!”
Mariella’s hands lift to his chest as she pushes him off of her and quickly scampers to the edge of her bed, sitting on her knees. “Joe Bear!” He sits up on his elbows to see her eyes as wide as saucers. “Did you use the hotel soap? I told you it was bad for you! You should have listened to me because now you’re having an allergic reaction!”
Joe frowns and does his best to ignore the way his cock throbs at the sight of her titties dangerously close to spilling out her top. He was so close. “What?”
He sits up as she climbs off the bed and starts rushing over to the bathroom. “Come on. Throw something on. We’ve gotta go to the ER!” She stops, holding his pants and looking up with an expression of wonder. “I wonder if Patricia is working tonight.”
He closes his eyes. The way she’s on a first name basis with the fucking staff at the ER is both insane and yet makes all the sense in the world. If the hospital had a reward system, her ass would be a VIP member.
Lifelong.
“Put these on!” She shouts, tossing his dress pants at him as he sits up and hisses at the discomfort of his neglected erection. Mari comes to stand in front of him to grab his hand, “and don’t worry. I’ll hold your hand when they put the needle in your dick to make the swelling go down. I promise.”
It’s when she says that, however, that Joe just knows this is about to be a fucking mess.
Mariella frowns and looks at their still conjoined hands when she tries to turn away, but he tightens his grip, keeping her standing before him.
Her gaze on him reflects the sense of urgency present in her voice. “Joe Bear, you gotta hurry up. If we wait too long, they might have to amputate it!”
“Ri.” This damn girl and her fucking over the top, irrational ass beliefs. “We don’t need to go to the ER.”
Her eyes widen as she yanks her hand away. “What do you mean we don’t have to go? Joe, you’re having an allergi—”
“Mariella,” he cuts through, already knowing that his rare use of her full name will shut her up. For now, at least. “I’m not having an allergic reaction. It’s just an erection.”
She blinks twice, sticking her neck out just enough to accompany the way she nods to herself. Or him. One can never really tell with her. “An engorged erection because of the allergic reaction.”
“For fuck’s sake,” he curses. “Ri. This is just me. I don’t know what the fuck to tell you.”
“Language,” she chides. He rolls his eyes as she leans back and eyes him skeptically. “What do you mean it’s just you?”
“I mean, it’s just me,” he repeats. Joe runs his hand through his hair. “I’ve got a big dick. I don’t know what else to tell—”
“Wait a minute,” she interrupts. He watches the way she shuts her eyes and takes a deep breath before looking at him like he suddenly just grew another head. Granted, in her eyes, maybe he did. “What do you mean that’s just you?” Opening his mouth is a waste of time as she points to his lap, dick still just as hard as it was five minutes ago. Just as painful, too. “You mean to tell me that’s normal for you?”
He looks from side to side, answering like it’s the simplest fucking thing in the world. “Yes.”
She must stare at him for a good thirty seconds before moving closer to him once more, fingers reaching for the waistband of his boxers. Joe shakes his head as she almost cautiously angles her head just enough so she can catch a peek. And the minute she does, the loudest gap emits from her mouth as she jumps back like she’s just been burnt.
“What the hell is that, Joe?” If her eyes were wide before, they’re damn near about to explore out of her head now, as she slaps her hand over her mouth. “Why is your penis so big?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose for the umpteenth time tonight. And here it goes.
She’s pacing across the floor in front of him, talking to either himself, herself, or maybe both.
“Dicks are not supposed to look like that, okay?” He leans back on his palms as she turns to direct her next statement directly to him, her voice jumping an octave or two, as it normally does when she spirals like this. “They only look like that in porn, and even then it’s probably prosthetics and photoshop!”
He frowns. “How do you photoshop a video?”
Naturally, she ignores his question and instead issues her own ridiculous ass question. “Are you absolutely sure that’s normal? Like maybe you need to see a specialist!”
“Pretty sure I don’t.”
An athlete all of his life, Joe has had his fair share of doctor’s appointments, check-ups, physicals, and everything under the sun. If no medical professional has ever said anything to him, he’s pretty sure that he’s fine, and Ri is just being…..Ri.
She gasps, looking away as if breaking the fourth wall. “We’re going to have to have a sexless marriage.”
“Ri—”
“We’ll have to adopt an adorable little baby who has a complexion closer to mine and ears as big as yours to make sure no one ever suspects the truth.” Another loud, sharp gasp makes him cut his eyes to the ceiling as hers land on him. “We’ll have to get a surrogate.”
“Ri, you’re acting ridiculous right now.”
“You know what’s ridiculous?” She marches up to him, angrily gesturing to his crotch. “You thinking you’re putting that—that thing anywhere near me let alone in me!”
He sits up and hunches over, erection gradually settling as time passes, as if recognizing space and time is needed to accommodate her spazzing. “What did you think you were feeling when we would makeout before?”
Because Lord knows there have been at least a few occasions when things got heated between them to the point where he felt like he was going to explode in his pants. And most of the time she was straddling his lap so how she hadn’t felt something prior to now that indicated he was on the bigger side is beyond him.
“I don’t know!” She throws her hands up. “Certainly not dickzilla!” Joe follows the back of her, attempting to not focus too much on the jiggle of her ass when she walks over to grab one of the complimentary water bottles off the coffee table. Unnecessary huffing sounds accompanying her shuffling back over to him. “Joseph, my brother-husband in Christ, you don’t understand. I can barely stick a Super Plus tampon up there without blinking back tears.” She lifts up the water bottle and points to the cap. “My vagina is like this.” He has to stop himself from rolling his eyes, doing his best to not show just how utterly ridiculous he finds this whole thing. She then flips the bottle and gestures to the bottom of said bottle. “Your dick is like this!” She throws it to the side as she opens his mouth to scold her as it bumps against the table and rolls away near the TV. “Do you see the dilemma? It’s not gonna fit.”
“Are you done?”
And he knows she’s nearing the tail end of the climax with this whole episode when she starts to whine and stomp. “I’m gonna end up on Sex Sent Me to the ER.”
“Oh my God, come here.” Joe reaches for her arm and tugs her between his spread legs as he sits at the edge of the bed. He eases his hands down to her waist while she continues to pout and frown, looking down at the floor. “Mariella, we don’t have to do anything tonight if you’re not ready.”
His honest reassurance must take her by surprise. She lifts her eyes to his, mouth set into a frown as she blinks several times. Like she's trying to take in what he just said. “but...but it’s our wedding night…”
“And?” Joe shakes his head and pulls her even closer as she settles her hands on his shoulders. “Ri, I didn’t marry you just so we can have sex. I love you, and I respect this is a big step for you. Just because you’re my wife doesn’t mean you have to force yourself into doing something you’re not ready for.”
Perhaps he should have made that clearer ahead of time, but Joe was honestly under the impression that she knew he would wait for her as long as she needed. It’s a strange sort of space to be in for someone who primarily dated women in the past solely because of their ability to match his high sex drive. And Lord knows he desires Ri in every way imaginable, has gotten himself off countless times at the thought of fucking her. But his love for her will always outweigh everything else, so wherever her comfort zone is, is where he’ll meet and hold her hand until she’s ready to progress further.
“It’s not—” She interrupts, shaking her head. “I want this, Joe. I’m ready. I am, I promise. I just.” He kisses her inner wrist, again inhaling the alluring scent of whatever body oil she’d used right as she takes a deep breath. “I can do this.” Her hands shift to his face as she kisses him, his own hands dropping to her ass, giving a gentle squeeze. She smiles against him, pulling back and biting down on her bottom lip. “I just need to warm up.”
He frowns. “Warm up?”
Mariella turns and rushes to the bathroom where Joe realizes the music was still playing—Sexual Healing—the sound most likely obscured and faded out by her mini panic attack.
“Ri, what are you—”
He closes his eyes.
This damn girl.
Joe releases yet another heavy sigh as the music transitions from one classic to another, the latter, however, being the wildest shit he’s heard in some time.
Eye of the Tiger
But it’s a short lived time as he watches Ri stand in front of the mirror, bouncing up and down on the soles of her feet as he’s done himself a few times over the years.
When trying to get into game mode.
“I can do this,” she says to herself, nodding and rolling her shoulders. “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”
“Mariella.” If she doesn’t turn that damn music off and come get in the bed so they can just go to sleep. “Turn off—”
“Not now, Joe Bear, I’m training!”
“Training for wh—”
Another question interrupted when she switches to another song.
The familiar opening of the Rocky theme song as she transitions to pretending she’s boxing, bouncing from side to side with the fucking sound effects of her huffing and puffing like she’s on the brink of an asthma attack.
And knowing her ass, she probably is.
“Ri, if you don’t sit your ass down before you get us kicked out this damn hotel.” It’s a miracle no one’s knocked at the door—or wall—yet from her loud ass music and unnecessary dancing.
“Halfway through, hubby!”
Halfway?
“I’m going to bed,” he mutters, standing up and moving to pull back the blankets when she rushes into the bedroom, phone in hand.
“Not yet! I’m almost ready.” Joe stands with his arms crossed as she messes around with her phone before yet another song is added to this whole unnecessary ass scene.
And the minute “Everybody dance now” screeches into the room, he’s back to peeling back the blankets while she starts to do lateral lunges in the middle of the damn floor followed by quick, rapid squats with awful ass form.
“Gotta get loose,” she pants, transitioning to doing the running man. It’s only then that he simply shakes his head and smiles, running his hand over his face. The whole thing is actually comical as fuck, and mostly because she’s 100% serious right now.
This is just….this is his Ri.
“I’m about to turn the light off.”
“No!”
Her shout is followed by her—when the fuck did she even switch to the Macarena?—running and jumping on the bed. Quickly moving to all fours, her ass up in the air, as she looks over at him. “I’m ready.”
If not for the hilarious, dramatic way she says 'ready,' he’s certain his dick would have jerked from the way she wagged her ass.
He keeps his focus on her as he dips one knee into the mattress that groans under the weight of his addition. “Ri…”
“Oh shoot, wrong position.” She sucks her teeth and Joe continues to observe with confusion as she drops to her stomach and instead rolls onto her back. Confusion that quickly morphs into returned exasperation when she lifts her legs in the air, holding them up by her ankles, making strained noises followed by an out of breath. “Okay, now I’m ready.”
And while he was previously ready to go to bed, his eyes flicking towards her legs make his jaw clench at the sight of her pussy lips having been completely swallowed the thong. That desire revived and sensation of tightness in his boxers returning.
Only Ri could make him bounce back and forth between disbelief, humor, and now lust in a span of five minutes.
Her hold over him is diabolical.
“Wait!”
Except the screeching of the tape sounds when she goes to untangle herself from the position, making an “oof” sound when she accidentally rolls over off the bed and onto the floor from the other side. Joe starts to round said bed to check on her when she lifts her hand with a thumbs up. “I’m okay!”
Joe tilts his head back and rolls his shoulders.
On second thought, maybe they should just call it a night.
“Joe Bear,” she huffs, climbing back onto the bed. “Grab your phone.”
He blows out a breath, shifting so that his hands are on his hips. “For what, Ri?”
She groans loudly and throws up her hands, sitting on her knees. “So I can record my last will and testament.”
“Ri.”
“And whatever you do, do not let that lil’ colorist Alexandra Shipp play me in the biopic. Keke will do just fine.”
“Mariella.”
a/n : before anyone asks, yes, they did end up consummating their marriage that night. yes, mariella's dramatic ass absolutely made joe push her out in a wheelchair the next morning. and yes, she blasted 'i just had sex' by lonely island on the drive back to their apartment.
she also may have played it on repeat when they got home and said she was on "bed rest" for the next three days.
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