beyonce!reader who always gives diana ross a hard time.
suggestive content.
you and michael had arrived in seperate cars tonight.
but that's only because you were doing a special performance for the vma's which meant you had to arrive early for a soundcheck.
as michael took his seat, a crew member from backstage rushed over to his row, whispering something in his ear about someone who wanted to see him, he immediately knew who.
you sat in a dressing room, warming up your vocals when the door opened and when you saw michael in a dazzling suit, your face broke into a wide grin.
"how do i look?" you asked him as he came closer to you, closing the door behind him. "beautiful baby, absolutely breath-taking." he breathed out, admiring your shining skin beneath the bejewled bralette and gold skirt with feathers across it. his eyes flickered up to the honey blonde curls you were rocking and his smile grew.
"you nervous?" he asked, wrapping his arms around your chest.
you nodded, "i always am before these things." you replied, to which he tutted and pulled you closer, "you look great, you're gonna do great, tonight will be great." he muttered before kissing your neck, he knew your face was off limits when you had stage makeup on, "say it back."
"you look-" you started with a coy grin before he cut you off, "baby, come on." he sighed, trying to fight the smile that was coming.
"okay, sorry." you giggled, throwing your head back, "i look great, i'm gonna do great, tonight will be great." you firmly said, "attagirl." he smirked, placing another kiss to your neck.
"okay, i gotta go back to my seat now, kill it out there for me?" he asked, you nodded excitedly, "see you after." you smiled.
the award show started and you got to watch from a tv backstage, which meant you were seeing everything the viewers would see. which meant everyone could see diana ross sat next to michael jackson, your man. not only that, but she made it a point to have her hand on his shoulder and there was a red lipstick stain on his cheek. who had red lipstick on? diana.
it was constant. after every award or performance, the camera would pan to them, whispering and laughing together and by the time it was your turn to go onto stage? you were pissed.
"to be or not to be? not."
when the intro started, the lights were pitch black. by the time it ended the lights flashed back on and you stood in the middle of the stage. you strutted down the stage following the beat of your iconic song, 'freakum dress' and when you glanced over in michael's direction, he was sat up and watching you eagerly while diana had a judgemental look in her eyes.
"it's time to get it, cause once again he's out doing wrong."
you briefly glanced in michael's direction as you sang this line. of course, since he was so oblivious he had no idea that this line was aimed at him, you had seen everything that happened tonight and you were angry.
as usual, your choreography was fierce and sharp, you always picked the best backup dancers who could keep up with the intense choreography and your amazing stage presence.
"such an attraction, keep tellin' me how my outfit's so nice.
little did he know - ha, my man gon' take it off tonight."
you winked as you sang that line - the camera hurriedly panned to michael for his reaction. he bit his lip with a smile, looking down at his lap bashfully while diana fought herself from rolling her eyes.
there was then a guitar solo, the girl playing the electric guitar stood forward, playing an astonishing solo which gave you enough time to prepare for the bridge that was soon approaching. it required both a fast, dramatic choreography and a powerful voice.
"when you put it on it's an invitation. when they play your song, get on up and shake it, work it out your back, you don't have to waste it
spin it all around then take it to the ground ."
the crowd erupted into cheers as you flawlessly executed the bridge, michael smiled proudly, clapping with everyone else and when the song ended he was the first one to stand up - leading to everyone following suit while you stood at the front of the stage, your chest heaving heavily as you caught your breath. you blew one kiss to the crowd before the lights went off and you started heading off stage.
you sat in your dressing room, working on a cool down as you stretched your legs and chugged water. there was a small knock at the door, before michael peered in. "that was amazing, baby." he proudly said as he leaned down to kiss your cheek, but what he wasn't expecting was for you to swerve his kiss. "what's wrong? i thought i was allowed to kiss you properly after performances?" he furrowed his brows in confusion and you just glared at him. "why don't you get a proper kiss from whoever did that to your cheek?" you asked, grabbing his chin, forcing him to look in the mirror. the confusion on his face cracked when he saw the red lip stain and everything began to make sense. "this is about diana?" he asked although he already knew the answer. you stayed silent.
he softly said your name as he grabbed a tissue to wipe off the stain, "baby, i'm sorry. she was just greeting me." he tried to make it better but you just scoffed, "so i should greet every guy i see with a fucking kiss on the cheek?"
"you're right. it was wrong." he sighed, massaging the tension in your shoulders away, "it was wrong for me to let her touch on me like that when i'm practically a married man." he leaned down, kissing your neck as he gently grabbed your chin, forcing your head to tilt back so you could look up at him, "let me take you home and show you how sorry i am." he muttered against your skin. you hummed in satisfaction as you stood up to change.
you two were leaving through the back, but you rolled your eyes as you heard that agitating voice from behind you. "michael, will i see you at the after party?" you both stopped in your tracks and turned around slowly to find diana ross watching you both with a stiff smile.
"i don't think so...y/n's really tired after tonight." michael apologetically shrugged, diana rolled her eyes teasingly, "come on, y/n's a big girl, she only did one song. i'm sure she can handle one night alone, can't you?" she asked you, which made you look at her in disbelief.
"so i'm not even invited to the after party?" you clarified, diana winced, "it was a tight number of guests allowed, i couldn't invite everyone." she shrugged as if that explained everything, "and if we start making changes to let you in, we have to do that for everyone and it just becomes messy."
"this isn't middle school diana, i don't care about your tight guest lists. michael's not going." you said, diana rolled her eyes as she looked at michael, "i was asking michael, not michael's girlfriend."
"michael's girlfriend is her own person, diana. and she's right. if she's not welcome somewhere why would i wanna go? that's just disrespectful on my part." michael shrugged as if it were obvious, "you have a good night." he nodded as he took your hand, continuing to head to the car instead of stay back and listen to diana's flimsy excuses and pleads for some extra alone time with michael.
the moment they got into the car, you threw your arms around michael's neck and finally let him kiss your lips. once you pulled away he smiled, "see? you're my girl, i always got you."
you smiled, "you still owe me a lot of foot rubs tonight." michael playfully groaned, "you're not mad, you decided to dance in heels and now you're suffering from the consequences."
"exactly." you smiled at him, kissing his cheek once more before leaning back in your seat.
SYNOPSIS𑁤 there's an old saying that if you knew then what you know now, you'd have done things differently. even if just a little. karesse shaw is living proof of that. then again, maybe not.
WARNINGS𑁤 smut. dirty talk. unprotected sex. multiple positions. infidelity. age gap (15 yrs). toxic/unhealthy dynamics. codependency. unhealthy relationship dynamics to the max. unhealthy attachment. toxicity through and through. topics pertaining to grief, illness, pregnancy complications, and death. morally gray characters.
WORDS𑁤 fifteen thousand and some change (15k+)
PAIRING𑁤 roman reigns x younger!blackoc
CREDIT𑁤 photos from pinterest and instagram. title graphic and mdni banner by me. gold divider by @/pixopix / melo gif by @/princedevitt and roman gif by @/fabxpunk
AUTHOR’SNOTE𑁤 this is part one of two. what started out as a simple oneshot turned into this massive, lore heavy storyline that was initially inspired by a reel but took on a life of its own. i wrote/am writing it in non-chronological order, so i did my best to piece things together as cohesively as possible. also, this is a hot fucking mess in every sense of the word.
The overwhelming sound of applause, consisting of cheering and clapping, is nothing more than cacophony. Fodder for the rage that soars throughout her body. Born as irritation the minute she heard the haunting opening sound of a theme he hasn't used since the night before his historic title reign came to what many considered an epic conclusion and one of the best main events of all time.
But it gradually reverted back to aggravation when he walked onto the makeshift stage, shiny, gold belt over his shoulder. He'd clearly showered, flyaways of his usually neat, slick bun indicative of how he most likely took a blow dryer to dry what he could and was allowing the Vegas humidity to do the rest.
She doesn't remember it being this warm last year.
Last year….
The same year she said would be the last year.
That she swore up and down during one of their many…many heated arguments over the phone—the ones that she ensured took place on the privacy of her backyard as she paced the length of the pool deck—that it'd be a cold day in hell before she attended one of his shows.
Mania be damned.
And she didn't necessarily lie.
She's not there for him.
She's there for him.
Carmelo.
Her boyfriend.
Well…
And just like that, a fresh wave of intense anger is revived when she recalls what invited the emotion that's been dominant and consistent when it comes to that irritating ass man.
He's fucking ridiculous.
But she should have known. She should have known that there was no way in hell for last night to end the way that it did and he not have something up his sleeve. He was far too calm upon her departure for him to not be scheming and planning. He probably already had Paul on the fucking phone before she even hit the elevator.
April 18th, 2026 — WrestleMania 42 - Night One
The feel of his big, calloused hand palming and squeezing her ass preceded the loud echo of that same hand coming down on her ass, the slap echoing throughout the suite but ultimately lost among the pre-existing, louder dominant noises.
The headboard brutally beating into the pillows they'd learned a long time ago absorbed the only set of noises that could be controlled and maintained. Everything else was always something beyond the realm of control, including the way she cried out and cursed at the stinging aftermath of his slap.
Karesse detested the way that his deep voice managed to overpower everything else, that she could hear that dark chuckle even in the midst of his heavy balls slapping repeatedly against her pussy that both throbbed and squeezed around his thick ass dick. In all the years that'd passed, every time still felt like the first time. That unforgiving stretch and impossible depth that always made her initially dub over, hand—when not restricted—reaching for her stomach.
It was unreal how deep he always felt.
How deep he was.
"I don't know why you're trying to be so quiet." She kept her eyes and mouth shut, more than certain that if she bit down on her lip any harder, she'd draw blood. The same way he drew back almost entirely before ramming back into her. Karesse's nails scraped against the sheets, searching for a sort of anchor that was ruined at least three positions ago. Damp, soaked, somewhere in between and beyond, whatever the case, they were no use.
"Acting like you ain't in tears over how good this dick feels," he continued, once more palming the globe of her ass that bounced off his dick with fervent passion and desire. Naturally, she needn't put in much effort, but as always, it was a high she couldn't not chase. "How it always feels." Couldn't not heed to the aching in her lower back that he kept pushing down on as he rammed his cock into her. Couldn't not eagerly throw her ass back to meet him thrust for thrust. "How your Tribal Chief always makes you feel."
It was a road that offered one end and one end only.
"S—shut up," she managed through heavy pants, the weight of her breasts slapping against her chest just another source of deafening sounds that couldn't be avoided.
One of many things that could never be avoided with the man behind her.
But Karesse was suddenly pushed down on the mattress, the absence of Roman's cock in her weeping, needy, pulsing pussy a deprivation that had her instantly groaning through closed lips. Frustration briefly spiked to an all time high when he flipped her over on the mattress like she weighed nothing, and despite that being far from the case, especially since the birth of their daughter, it tracked.
She licked her lips and soaked in the sight of his big, hulking body over hers, the groaning of the mattress underneath the weight of his knee lost in the way her eyes could only focus on his dick. Thick, erect, hung between his equally thick tree trunk legs, the tip flushed and glistening with their conjoined juices.
Roman smirked down at her before reaching for her ankles and pushing back her legs before his gaze refocused to her spread legs and throbbing cunt. His eyes darkened.
"That's a pretty ass pussy right there." Karesse watched with a coiling stomach as he brought his thumb to his mouth, pink tongue swiping over the pad before it disappeared between her legs. Her head lolled back at the slightest but stirring press of it against her swollen clit. "All puffy and creaming from taking daddy's big dick."
Karesse started to trail her hand down her slick body to tend to her throbbing, sensitive pearl only to feel a shift.
Roman's hands locked behind the back of her thigh, his baritone voice dropping an octave as she heard the bed creak once more and felt his minty breath between her legs. "And she taste just as good as she looks."
Her clit was exchanged for the back of Roman's head. Her fingers nestled and tangled into his silky, dark curls as he the sound of him slurping on her pussy for what had to have been the third time tonight had her writhing and moaning on the bed.
"Stop all that damn moving," he groaned, ceasing only momentarily to issue his one and only warning. Countless, prior experiences taught her well that he was a one and done. After that, he'd just use his strength to lock her down against that mattress while he ate her out until she was practically sobbing and begging him to stop. That she couldn't take it anymore.
It never made a difference.
From the moment their sexual relationship reached the level to where he didn't have to factor in her inexperience, that was all she wrote.
He always put her through the mattress and flipped, bended, contorted her in ways she didn't even realize were ways.
But it was when he finally decided that she'd had enough, Karesse on the brink of pulling her hair out by the roots, that the atmosphere shifted when they changed positions once more. For the final time. And she knew this well and with all the confidence when he kissed his way up her body until he reached her mouth. His hands hooking behind her thighs that autonomously locked around his waist the same way her wrists crossed behind his neck as her fingers tangled in his hair while they continued to make out. His pace shifted to accompany this more intimate positioning of their connected bodies.
Karesse panted and moaned into his mouth as he transitioned from that filthy mouth of his that would make Only Fans highest paid worker blush and stammer to the proclamations that always caused warmth to bloom in her chest.
In her heart.
"….always you…."
"….fucking hate being away from you…."
"…..I love you…."
It was the last one—often repeated more than once—that she always reciprocated. She didn't know how not to. Not in these singular moments where everything outside of what she felt in the deepest part of her soul didn't exist. Where, even if a facade, everything seemed and felt right.
She drowned in it willingly.
But it was a temporary sort of quicksand, as when they both reached their fill, and he peeled himself off and away from her, Karesse remained in bed as the reality that existed outside of the room gradually returned to the front and center.
Where it should have never left.
"We're going on the road with him."
Subtle yellow lighting reflected off the defined line in the middle of his back, shadows in between the bulging muscles that were flexed from the mid-movement of him pulling his shirt back on. She tried to distract herself by counting the amount of bruises—varying shapes, sizes, and hues—along with tiny scrapes and cuts. Some from the fight.
Some from her nails clawing down that same back not even ten minutes ago as he thrust desperately and sloppily inside of her before exploding, ropes of warm, white, hot cum still seeping from her swollen, puffy vagina.
But the moment he turned around, her distraction was deprived and irritation revived. The scowl on his face already letting her know exactly where this was about to go.
Where it always went.
"What?"
Karesse rolled her eyes and leaned back against the headboard. Her hands against her chest keeping the thin fitted sheet covering the bulk of her body that was still slick with sweat that had her edges and kitchen all but completely reverted back to its kinky kurly state.
"You heard me," she repeated. "I said we're going on the road with him."
Roman kept his gaze steady on her, finally pulling his shirt over his head before following up with a newfound but understand irritable tone. "What the fuck does that mean?"
"Roman," she sighed. "You know exactly what it means." Because it's exactly what she'd done with him at some point. "Melo wants us to join him for a little bit so we could spend time together, and I said yes."
Forever watchful and observant, Karesse kept her focus on him while her free hand hidden under the soft sheets tapped at the mattress that still felt damp under her fingertips either from the mess they'd made of the perfectly clean, pristine sheets prior to her arrival to his room.
It's what allowed her to see that familiar flash gleam in his eyes. "And why the fuck would you say that?"
She closed her eyes. "Roman—"
"You're not going."
Karesse's eyes snapped open just as quickly as they clamped shut. Her bottom lip dipped open just enough for a tiny breath to escape. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." He walked across the room, snatching his pants off the velvet, cream colored chaise lounge they started on as he reclined back and tugged her on top of him, impaling her on his dick that she role with a disgusting amount of fervor and desire before they transitioned to the bed. He snatched his pants and turned around, face morphed into that irksome ass scowl that made her want to punch him right in his beautiful ass face. "You're not taking my daughter away."
It wasn't that Karesse was expecting Roman to leap for joy at this news. No, she knew the moment she finally gave Melo an answer as they sat on the sofa together in their shared suite following her getting Bri down for bed that it would be a whole fucking thing. She just wasn't expecting to already be over all of it before the fireworks could even fully begin.
"Stop being dramatic. You'll still see her." She contemplated sharing that she'd already asked for Melo to send her over the set of dates he knew and had so she could start figuring out flights back home to accommodate that. Because that's all she's ever done it, seems. Accommodate him.
"When?" He pressed, stepping into and sliding up his joggers. "When you feel like it?"
"And how is that any different from how things are now?"
Her sharp rebuttal was met with silence followed by his eyes diverting to the adjacent wall. "That's fucking bullshit, and you know it." She leaned back in bed, arms pressed to her side to keep the sheet intact, knowing full and well what exposure of her nude body would do to him. To the both of them. He flicked his gaze back to her. "I'm with her almost every day of the week." Another gleam she opted to ignore as well as the dip in his volume. "I'm with you."
Karesse couldn't necessarily deny him that. From day one of Briella Mae's arrival into the world, Roman has always done any and everything he could and can for their daughter. That included heading right over to her/their house right after dropping off his youngest two children with her at school. He essentially took care of Brie while Karesse worked, because while many hailed working from home being the easiest thing ever, holding a supervisor level position in a mostly male dominated industry meant that she had to ensure to cross every 'T' and dot every 'I.'
Especially as a black woman.
Roman kept their baby girl busy while she worked her nine to five that was often filled with small to large gaps in the day that allowed her to spend time with them, and when Brie was down for naps, him.
Sometimes, it all felt so….domestic.
And for a second, it worked. That warmth in her chest that bloomed and was borderline overwhelming every time he looked at her like that, stroked her soft skin as they laid in bed together, limbs as entangled as their souls. Made her feel what no one else ever had.
But that was then, and this is now.
Nothing has ever felt or been more different. A realization that made her counter that much easy to issue.
"Will you be this summer?" She pressed. "Will you be with her or me most of the week when your kids with her are home for the break?"
"Karesse—"
"When you wine and dine them all over the world cosplaying as this perfect husband and dad while sneaking FaceTime calls with me and Bri while wifey is being pampered at the spa and the kids are laughing and having the time of their life in the background?"
Karesse hated everything about this conversation, but nothing filled her with more rage and hostility than discussing that bitch. Hate has always felt like such a strong word to use towards another human being. At least, that's how she's always felt. And perhaps it was the—now that she's older and can look back—ridiculous, childish back and forth between the two of them, that set them down the path they ended up on.
Nasty texts that once resulted in Karesse throwing her phone across the room when she received a 30 second clip of the two of them having sex.
Roman and his wife.
It eventually followed up with Karesse hitting an Uno Reverse card as she pulled up her iCloud and sent over an almost five minute, first person POV video of Roman eating her out.
But again, all of that would prove nothing more than child's play compared to the ultimate, culminating event that, even a little over a year over, Karesse still can't bring herself to fully think about, let alone discuss.
All she knows is that she hates that bitch with every fiber of her being, Briella Mae will never be around her alone, and that her hatred has no expiration date.
Period.
Rendered silent once more by a truth he couldn't deny because she, because they, lived it, have lived it several times over, Roman resorted to what he always did when backed into a corner.
He projected.
"Isn't that what you'll be doing if you go gallivanting around the country with him like some fucking groupie?" He sneered. "Dragging my daughter—"
"Oh, you're so full of shit." Any little amount of effort and consideration she'd set aside for the conversation is DOA and was DOA the moment he started off by telling he what she wasn't going to do with her child. She tried. Truly. But Roman could be so fucking impossible at times.
He could also be hypocritical, and in that moment, he was both.
His presence was suddenly the cause of her discomfort and prompted her to kick the blankets off as she also started to journey across the suite to redress.
"Karesse—"
"This conversation is over with."
As she slid her dress over her body, completely disregarding her soaked panties she planned to just toss in the trash, she could feel his heavy footsteps behind her.
"The fuck it is," he huffed.
She spun around on her heel, looking up and glaring while attempting to adjust the top of the sleeveless dress that kept rolling down over her boobs. "I have nothing to say to you right now, Roman."
Nothing nice, anyway. Sliding on her heels, it was only when she was upright that she felt his hand on her arm, her body yanked into something hard and warm and far too inviting for everything that just occurred over the past five minutes.
"Rom—"
"Karesse."
She kept her eyes closed, refusing to meet the gaze she already knew would have her melting in his embrace instead of how tempted to shove on his chest with little to not results. His hold, in many ways, was relentless.
"Hear me out." Resilience somehow remain undeterred as she kept her eyes shut despite the feel of his hand on the small of her back, the other gliding through her hair that hung, partially straight, partially curled over her shoulders and fanned her back. "She starts preschool in the fall."
"I know that."
"Then we need to be getting her ready for that," he countered, voice significantly softer, in that way it always relegated to when he realized she was shutting down on him. When he realized that, once more, he allowed his emotions to get the best of him and had subsequently put his foot in his mouth. "She doesn't need to be dragged from city to city every week—"
"But it was okay when we did it with you?" Her counter was accompanied by the way she forced her eyes to open just in time as his jaw ticked, the smart remark she knew he wanted to say shoved aside for something less antagonizing but just as irritating.
"That was different," he said, voice even. "There was a reason."
"And there's a reason now, Roman. The only difference is that you're not that reason anymore, and that's something you can't seem to accept."
Because when the roles were reversed, their daughter almost thirteen months, Karesse had done the exact same thing she was proposing. Joined Roman on the road for a couple months. Went with him from city to city with their young daughter in tow, and while perhaps the disastrous fallout from that whole debacle fueled part of his vehement objection to her plan, it wasn't enough to get her to change her mind.
The minute Karesse accepted her boyfriend's offer, the deal was done.
She didn't tell Roman to ask for his permission. She told him so he'd know in the next couple of weeks, she and baby girl would no longer be an easy 15 minute drive from his big, fancy mansion in the gated community where police roamed on the regular and kids could play freely and safely in the street without a care in the world.
That reminder, however, along with the way his hand started to inch its way down her body allowed Karesse to remember where she was and who stood before her.
With what was objectively unnecessary force, she jerked out of his embrace and forced herself to ignore the brief pang of hurt that flashed across his face.
If she had a dime for every time the role was reversed.
"I have to go," she said, refusing to entertain what should have never been revisited in the first place. She should have never replied to his text. "Besides, your family is waiting for you."
Yeah…..his failure to follow after her or even try to prevent her from leaving the room—wouldn't have been the first time—should have tuned her into the fact that he was up to something.
She just could have never anticipated it was this.
The time it takes for her to actually get to him is infuriating for a variety of reasons, most of which stem from the fact that what should be enjoyable, one of the happiest days of her life, has been soiled by the man who's been nothing but a thorn in her side since the day they met almost five years ago.
May 22nd, 2021 — Playmates
"He's back."
Karesse lifted her eyes from the wad of cash in hand that she just finished counting and met the vibrant emerald eyes of her coworker.
Kiana, KiKi, was easily one of the most beautiful women Karesse had ever laid eyes on. A flawless, deep complexion. Sharp, perfect features with striking eyes and curves that made every man and woman who laid eyes on her swoon almost immediately. Her no-nonsense approach to the business and life in general was something Karesse looked up to the moment she met the woman almost a year prior.
Almost a decade older but looking the same age as Karesse, there'd always been an almost maternal dynamic between them what with her always looking out for the, in many ways, naive twenty year-old.
Hence her heads up.
Karesse turned in her seat as Kiki slid in between her chair and the other unoccupied seat. They were in the midst of switching sets, hence why more bodies ambling and moving about vs sitting like she was. Karesse was on the tail end of her shift while a handful of the many other women were just getting started, hence the overwhelming aroma of perfume, fluids, and far too much hairspray.
"What?"
Kiki chuckled. "You heard me." She focused on the successful application of the first eyelash before turning to the young girl. "Well? You better go make that money, girl."
Money. The one thing Karesse never seemed to have enough of. Even what with her taking up her secret job as a "midnight ballerina" in conjunction with her part time job at Starbucks. The amount of income brought in covered her tuition, sure, and it most definitely made life significantly easier than where she started—utterly broke and on the brink of having to drop out of school after fucking up as badly as she did—but after all her other expenses, she barely broke even.
The past month, however, had been different.
Largely due to the man who was, as he had been for the past few weeks, waiting for her. He wasn't the first man who dropped a stack on her for private lap dances, but they were far, few, and in between. Not to mention the visits were always sprinkled out.
This man, however, had quickly become a regular as had the generous tip he always left. It'd helped a lot. Karesse would never deny that, but it didn't stop all the questions that rushed though her brain every time he showed up.
Some of which were answered when Kiki clued her into the fact that her…admirer of sorts wasn't some average Joe. He was famous. A professional wrestler, which explained his disgustingly perfect build. Valleys of solid, hard muscle that always flexed under her gentle touch as she danced atop him. A man like him was built for some sort of contact sport.
He was the top billed athlete in his sport, at that.
And paid very…very well according to several sites.
He was also married.
A stunning wife and four beautiful kids. That part didn't necessary surprise her, however, as she'd quickly learned through her time at the club that wedding bands were often nothing more than props for men to maintain and feign the image of wholesome, family men.
Roman Reigns was no different.
And yet he was.
Because unlike many of the men she was forced to entertain with balding, uneven hairlines, and arrogance that didn't match their 5'6 height they always rounded up to 5'10, Roman carried himself with regality and swagger that tracked. He was exactly who he thought he was, and that was….intriguing to Karesse.
Hence the way something in her stomach twisted every time he showed up—as he had, consistently, every Saturday night for almost the past month.
So while she continued to be surprised every time she exited the dressing room and maneuvered her way through the dimly lit and congested club, bodies mushed together, and met his waiting expression, she couldn't deny there was always a level of relief that accompanied his appearance.
If he intended for his visits to become a regular thing, she could get used to that.
Could get used to him.
A sentiment that was all but confirmed later that evening when what'd become routine quickly progressed into something else.
Her eyes lifted to his, her arms around his neck as she straddled his lap. The thin strings of her barely there top undone less than a minute into the song, hence the way her breast were free, exposed, and pushed against his chest. But it was the way his hands glided up her back, another roughly grasping at her ass, fiddling with the gold bottoms her ass all but swallowed, that made her take pause.
She struggled to keep her smile at bay, fully allured by not only his hypnotic gaze, but the scent of his cologne. Most men who requested lap dances carried with them a subtle odor she forced herself to ignore, as she recognized it was often a minimal level of perspiration fueled by the difficulty that came with composing themselves to keep the erections at bay.
Roman, from the night they met, always smelled good. Even with the bulge she felt pressing against her through her spread thighs. "You're not supposed to touch."
A cardinal rule she laid out the first time she entered the room with gold lining edging and dark green velvet furniture, accompanied by a pole and small platform to allow for greater flexibility and performance.
It was a rule he'd always respected.
Up until now.
He chuckled, and it made her body shiver. His voice was so damn deep. "Then push me away."
She had two options in that moment. Do exactly as he said. Or do exactly what she wanted.
She went with the latter.
Karesse grabbed his face and smashed her lips against his, instantly moaning and melting when his own hands pulled her close. She'd only kissed a couple of guys in her life at that point, but less than ten seconds into said kiss, it easily jumped to the top of 'best kiss' ever list.
She might have initiated it, but he quickly took control, tongue over her bottom lip and in her mouth, as his hands continued to explore her body while she writhed on top of him. Her moan, however, must have triggered something for him. He interrupted said kiss, her minty breath fanning his face, lips eager to feel his back on hers as he eyed her quizzically.
"How old are you?"
Karesse chuckled and shook her head, kissing around his mouth. "Now's a fine time to ask."
But what she considered a potential poor attempt at weird ass foreplay, he fully meant.
His mouth set into a frown. "I'm serious."
And she knew it. Could tell by the shift in his voice and stalled venturing of those big ass hands touching her all over, leaving invisible trails of growing heat and desire in its wake.
She sat back on his lap and smirked. Her hands found his and guided them to her chest. Unlike many of the girls she worked with, she didn't have massive ass tits—homegrown or manufactured. A moderate C cup, what she lacked up top was more than made up by the ass, thighs, and hips she used to wine, shake, and jiggle all over that stage to keep her bank account in the green and life on the right track.
Still, titties were titties, and the way he'd always eyed hers with hunger indicated they were big enough for him, and that was good enough for her.
She locked her palms on top of his, catching the subtle twitch of his thumb over her puckered, dark nipples. "How old do you think I am?"
But despite that minute sign of cracking, his resolve remained. "How….old."
Karesse, to her credit, maintained the image of indifference as she forced a sigh. "Twenty-five." Except her answer did nothing to chip away at the way he continued to eye her. She chuckled, praying her growing apprehension didn't betray her. "What? You wanna see my ID?" She shook her head. "Come on, you really think they'd let me work here if I wasn't grown?"
Her second question followed up with the way she leaned over and kissed the shell of his ear seemed to do the trick. His hands lifted to her waist and then the back of her hair when he yanked her head back and smashed his lips back onto hers.
She smiled into said kiss.
Yes. Yes, they would.
Because she was, in fact, not that grown. Sure, her ID reflected a DOB that matched what she'd just told him, but what twenty year-old didn't have a fake ID?
They clocked it the day she attempted to apply, desperate and with no other options, but they also saw what had always been the case for her.
That while her face leaned on the youthful side, she was thick in all of the right places, thus age restrictions being optional and inconsequential.
So while it wasn't a lie reserved specifically for him, as it was a reserved, default lie, it was still the beginning of what she could have never imagined to be a life changing journey.
June 5th, 2021
Karesse flashed a small smile and placed the five dollar bill in the open palm of the delivery driver who offered a distracted grin, the white ear buds in his ear that peaked through shaggy brown hair clearly more interesting than a customer's pleasantries.
Accepting the boxes, the heat from which traveled to her fingertips and made her bite down on her lip with a tiny hiss, Karesse bumped the door closed with her hip. She started to shift the boxes close to her chest, allowing the smaller one on top to slide close to her chest, as she went to turn the deadbolt lock. However, the weight of the boxes were relieved and allowed her both hands to lock the door back.
Roman stood before her, the boxes in hand that she could barely hold with two hands looking like two small to-go plates in his big hands and against his even bigger, broader chest. The private rooms they'd spent time in before transitioning outside of the club always seemed too small for someone like him, and despite her apartment being twice the size of the room, it still felt too small for him.
Karesse was unsure if there was a place that could accommodate someone like Roman Reigns.
"Thank you," she murmured. Turning to finish locking the door, she spun on the heel of her sock covered feet to see him looking down at the boxes curiously. "What?"
His gaze lifted to her, and he chuckled. "Think you got enough?"
Karesse rolled her eyes and shrugged, pushing her silky hair behind her ear. "You look like you like to eat."
She quickly realized that it was the wrong choice of words when something flashed in his gaze as he raked his eyes over her. "You ain't wrong."
Clearing her throat and doing her best to play off how flustered she felt, which was stupid as fuck considering he'd seen and groped every inch of her, Karesse walked into the kitchen, Roman in tow. Hitting the switch, she shuffled over to the fridge and bit down on her bottom lip seeing limited options.
"Ummm, is—"
"Water is fine," he answered. She turned to see he'd placed the boxes down on the counter and was standing with his arms crossed. It was only then she realized he'd removed his hoodie that didn't make much sense for one to wear in June, especially what with the brutal Floridian heat.
But she figured it was more so to help conceal his identity, especially with the way he kept the hoodie over his head as they climbed the two flight of steps it took to reach her apartment.
"Cool," she agreed. Karesse pulled out two water bottles from the pack of 24 that sat on the floor where linoleum met the carpeted area that stretched throughout the rest of the two bedroom apartment, sans the single, shared bathroom.
Plates prepared and drinks in hand, it wasn't until they migrated to the living room and the TV played some random replay of an old SVU episode that Karesse felt the strange tension that'd never been felt prior to this—their first time interacting outside of work—gradually melt.
"I didn't think you could even eat this stuff," she muttered, picking at her crust, eating it piece by piece, dipping it in the wing sauce that was just about gone. "Let alone this much."
He chuckled. "I probably shouldn't."
"Yeah, I heard old people have to be mindful of their diet and shit. Especially active old people." The small smile played on her lip as he looked at her with irritation that only made her grin widen. She waited until she was done chewing, reaching across to grab a napkin to dab at the corner of her mouth. "What?"
"Shut up." She did so only for the sake of the water bottle she'd twisted the cap off to down the remnants of food that remained despite thorough chewing. She was always so damn hungry after work. People don't realize what energy is expended from dancing. The first few weeks of work, she most definitely tapped out and passed out on her bed the minute she got home. "Where's your roommate?"
She took pause for a second but remembered her mentioning said roommate when he indicated initial reservation regarding them going back to her place. Not that they really had much of a choice.
They damn sure couldn't go to his place. For…obvious reasons.
"Home," she answered. "She always goes back home for a month at the start of summer. I think she'll be back sometime next week." Or perhaps after that. Amanda had always been…not the easiest person to catch up with. On top of holding some type of position within her sorority, being a student athlete, and working a part time job meant very little downtime during the school year. So as far back as when they first met, assigned as roommates during freshman year, summer, ironically, has always been the stretch of the year where most communication occurs through texts, phone calls, and FaceTime.
When Amanda was in town though, they always made sure to link up. Even if just for the night.
If only she knew who Karesse was "linking up" with right now.
"Ya'll close?"
Karesse looked over at him, watching as he started to fold over his used napkin atop the now empty, barely any crumbs outside of the stains of the wings plate that he reached over to place on the coffee table.
How his plate was twice the size of hers in terms of serving size and yet she was still trying to finish up her food was beyond her.
"Yeah, she's really cool." Karesse shrugged. "Wouldn't have agreed to move in with her off-campus if she wasn't."
"She still in school, too?"
Perhaps that random acting class she took freshman year paid off, cause the ease in which she skillfully hid the panic that arose at his question, was nothing short of a masterclass level performance. The trepidation that quickly brewed at the sight of his dark, thick eyebrows scrunching together from confusion mixed with curiosity. Spiked at the thought of him pushing for more information that would eventually expose the lie regarding her age.
Karesse offered a small nod. "Never too late to go back, right?"
He chuckled, leaning back against the sofa, her focus briefly shifting to his inked arms. His tattoos were obviously a nod to his Pacific Islander heritage—Samoan, if she recalled the Wikipedia page right—but she wondered if they held specific meaning beyond just cultural. "You say that shit like you're old."
"You would know."
The way he rolled his eyes made her smile return. "What's your name?" As if already knowing what her counter would be, he offered the clarification unrequited. "Your real name."
Once more, this man who she still knew so little yet so much about rendered her silent. One of the first rules Kiki drilled into her when she first started at the club was the importance of anonymity. Men, people, whomever, sought places like Playmates because it was a sanctuary for just that—invisibility. The ability to shed organic, birth assigned identification in exchange for whoever one wanted to be. Dancer or customer.
It was why they all went by stage names.
Velvet was hers. Red Velvet, initially, but she'd quickly ditched the adjective when she learned it was a reference to her complexion.
Karesse was many things, but a colorist was and would never be one of them.
She swallowed, reaching to place her empty plate atop his. "You're not very good with asking questions in a timely manner, are you?"
Because asking her age after she was practically naked, on his lap, lips swollen from their heated makeout session was one thing, but inquiring about her government after agreeing to return back to her place was…something.
Maybe stranger danger was a thing only stressed to little girls growing up. Not boys.
Leaning back into the arm of the sofa, she pulled her legs up to her chest as he shrugged indifferently. "What are you gonna do? Kick my shins?"
Karesse quickly stretched one leg just enough to, in fact, kick him. His leg that felt solid and hard against the ball of her foot. He caught her ankle, keeping her steady so that the heel of her foot sat on his big thigh. Licking her lips, she watched and felt the chills shoot up her body when he traced small circles on the span of skin where the top of her foot met her leg. "I'm serious."
She could tell.
Again, she considered deflecting. Perhaps even coming up with another alias, but guilt ate at her. He hadn't, to her knowledge, been dishonest with her regarding his own identity. Granted, unlike herself, he didn't really have the luxury to do so. While she had her own social media footprint, it was nothing compared to his own.
She already knew so much about him, while he knew so little about her.
It felt….wrong.
But beyond that…she didn't want to lie to him.
Not again.
And certainly not about this.
He'd met Velvet, but maybe, maybe it would be nice if he could meet and get to know Karesse.
"Karesse." She answered after a good two minutes of silence, something stirring in her stomach at the way the corner of his mouth rose to break the smallest smile. "My name is Karesse."
What makes it infinitely worse, however, is that Karesse can't entirely place the blame on him. Naturally, as is the case with most lies, he eventually found out the truth.
She was forced to disclose her dishonesty.
That when they met, while he was only three days away from his 36th birthday, she was only eight days away from her own.
Her 21st birthday.
He didn't talk to her for a week after that, and Karesse truly believed her short-lived, whirlwind romance with her rich, older, sexy ass man was but a thing of the past. And she couldn't blame him. Granted, her age being the deal-breaker and not his marital status was definitely….something.
Turns out neither were large enough issues for him to block and delete her number, because when anger settled, he was back, and it was like….like nothing happened. Not enough to ruin what they'd started to build.
And they continued to build. Because pretty soon, visits to the club and him coming to see her transitioned into her going to see him. Paid flights with first class seating into whatever city he was in for the night. Domestic and abroad. It started as a sort of….companionship, perhaps. Friendship? Maybe both, as it didn't seem to take very long for openness beyond the surface level topics to be unlocked on both sides.
July 24th, 2021
"Is there a reason you got these so damn long?"
Karesse fingers paused mid unraveling. She'd just gotten through with detangling a stubborn section of her hair locked into the kanekalon with the rat tail end of her comb. A success she was proud of until someone just had to fucking ruin it.
Again.
She looked over her shoulder, arms at her side keeping the blanket close to her chest unlike his that was bare, like the rest of his surprisingly warm body she was nestled into. In between his thick legs as he worked to help her take out the braids she should have taken out at least a week ago but kept pushing off.
So his surprise, unannounced visit provided the perfect opportunity to cut down a usually two to three hour job in half. At least, that would be the case if not for his lack of co-operation.
"Ya know, if you worked half as much as you complained, we'd almost be done by now." She huffed, reaching for another braid, using that same metal end to start to undo from the bottom of the plait, hoping and praying it would unravel naturally and without any unnecessary effort.
He sucked his teeth, the feel of him wading through her remaining braids, as if searching for the shortest one, only made her roll her eyes. "We would have been done if you didn't have so many of them." Men. "And next time can you pick a color that isn't the exact fucking same as your hair? It all looks the same."
The speed in which Karesse angled her body to ensure he could feel the intensity of her glare defied physics. "Because your blind ass refuses to put your damn glasses on."
Glasses that sat on the nightstand beside her bed that she'd picked up for him during a late night Walmart trip several visits prior where he'd cursed lowly at forgetting his glasses. Something that took her by surprise at first given she'd never really seen him use them. But she remembered. Remembered and picked up a pair, having asked that same day of discovery what strength he used.
He cut his eyes, and Karesse had to take a moment to take pause. Despite it going on almost two months since they met, the nature, depth, and connection between them—the two least expected individuals—was something she still hadn't fully processed. She knew that she cared for him something serious though. In ways she'd never felt about anyone else. Ever. "Smartass. How are my glasses going to help me distinguish black from black?"
Even if his old ass was irritating the living shit out of her.
His disrespectful ass introduction and irritating ass, hypothetical question quickly snatched her back to focus on the task at hand.
"Shut up," she muttered and turned back around. Peripheral vision granted her a glimpse of him reaching for the scissors off the dresser making her turn her head once more. "And you better not cut my hair."
"Stop moving so damn much, and maybe I won't."
Another smile cracked on her face despite the way she elbowed him in his hard ass stomach only for him to grab her arm, his thumb caressing the skin above her elbow. A gentle, subtle touch that evoked a sigh and the way her eyes fluttered as reclined back into him.
His mouth against her temple as she bit down on her bottom lip and managed a low, murmured, "you're an asshole."
He made a sound while she placed her hands over his muscled forearm that settled across her stomach under the sheets. "So I've been told."
They fell into another round of natural, normal silence in a way that most would find partially uncomfortable, if just a tad bit. But that was never the case with them, maybe towards the beginning of their relationship, but at that point, too much had been shared and experienced for them to be anything but comfortable.
Beyond that.
"I wanna ask you something."
Karesse stilled and suddenly wished that some distance existed between them so she didn't have to feign the bulb of tension that bloomed at his unexpected statement. She eventually found it in her to turn her head and look up at him. "Well, you gonna ask or did you forget already?" He rolled his eyes as she upped the ante, grateful for the small bit of successful deflection. "It happens with old people."
"Keep talking, Res." This time, she was the one to roll her eyes as she looked forward and reached for a braid to unravel. His mouth dipped to her ear as she bit back a smile. "The day I finally show you what this old man can do…" Her stomach coiled and throat grew tight at his husky, deep ass voice and the subtle graze of his finger on the underside of her breast. "You won't be saying or doing shit after the fact."
Her lips parted ever so slightly, and her thighs clamped together. Roman chuckled, clearly aware of her not so subtle reaction to his….promise? Either way, it was followed up with a return to his opening statement. "Why do you talk to yourself whenever we're in the car?"
"What?" She turned to look at him, the scowl on her face making him chuckle as he reached to push a few renegade braids from near her eye. "I—I don't talk to myself."
Even as she refuted it aloud, Karesse couldn't ignore the pang in her chest at both his question and the reality before her. It was bound to happen sooner or later. Try as hard as she did to be subtle about it around people who didn't already know, with how much time they'd spent together over the past two months, it was only a matter of time.
A part of her was surprised it'd taken him this long to ask.
He eyed her skeptically as she resisted the urge to push that pesky strand of his loose curls out of his face. For a man, he had some beautiful ass hair, and the fact that his routine was all but three steps and done made her sick to her stomach. Men. "Well you certainly ain't talking to me, and I know you're not talking to the driver so—" His eyes narrowed, voice and expression the blend of playful and serious. "You hear voices or some shit?"
"You're so aggravating." She sucked her teeth and elbowed him once more. "No, I don't hear voices." Karesse wasn't entirely sure, but she could have sworn that was a thing with one of his colleagues. Randy something? She couldn't be too sure. Her attendance at his shows were predominately focused on him and the Bloodline. Everyone else was background noise. "Like I said, I'm not talking to myself. Not…not really."
"Not really?"
She glared and focused on the TV mounted above her dresser. A gift from him to replace her old one that was fine but for the crack in the bottom left corner that caused a triangle of black and kaleidoscope colors that continued to spread. Something that didn't really bother her, but it bothered him. Thus his replacement. Just one of many things throughout her room that were courtesy of the man she was pressed up against. "I'm—I'm singing. Or…saying lyrics or—" Karesse blew out a breath and bit the inside of her cheek. "I told you that my parents died when I was younger, but I guess…I guess it was more that they were killed."
She could feel the way he tensed behind her, nonverbal indication of immediate regret, almost. "Karesse—"
"Car accident. Drunk driver. Obviously, I survived, but they…"
"Karesse—"
Another attempt to stop what'd already been started, but despite the typical somatic symptoms that accompanied discussion of what was without a doubt the hardest thing she'd ever been through, there was little desire to stop. No part of her that vied for a way out. She didn't love the discussion, but it wasn't unbearable, either. And if she had to take a guess, it was largely due to the man she was speaking to.
"After that, being in a car was….it was hard for me." Horrific. It was horrific. Screaming, crying, and vomiting at just the thought of it that few in her life, at the time, honored in a way she needed. "I was forced to do therapy for a while, and the therapist suggested a couple of things to help, and they did, I guess. But the thing that really helped, that stuck with me, for whatever reason, was when she told me to find my happy place and return to it whenever I was in a car."
The faintest smile grew on her face as memories of horror were flooded with recollections of ardent joy.
"We always had music playing in my house, and my mom—she loved Whitney. Played I Wanna Dance With Somebody so much that to this day, I hate that damn song. But—" For some reason, his quiet chuckle was calming. As was the way he rubbed small circles against her stomach. "I Believe in You and Me was her absolute favorite. My dad used to come up behind her as she played it while fixing dinner or folding clothes, and he'd hold her, and they just—they were so happy, and it made me happy. One of my favorite memories of them. With them."
She swallowed, gradually returning to a reality that was a lot less bleak than usual returns following her disclosing of a painful, traumatic past. "So anytime I'm in a car, I repeat the lyrics to myself and go to my happy place to keep myself from panicking." Karesse angled her head once more to gaze up at him, managing a small smirk. "Make sense? Or do you need a better explanation. I know old men can—"
He silenced her with a kiss that made her want to lean into him and never sit up, never do anything to rip her from that moment. Especially with the way he cupped her face, gentle and tender, her eyes fluttering just enough to make out the way his eyes focused on her and reflected something strong and unspoken.
But it was felt.
From that day forward, not a car ride with him has occurred without I Believe In You and Me already playing before either he or their driver can even open the door for her. And when it's the two or three of them, his right hand is either always on her thigh or holding hers.
Always.
Karesse often wonders who fell first. One some level, it felt like that award went to her. Looking back, she certainly started to fall before he did.
She must have.
One doesn't let a married man fifteen years their senior take their virginity in the presidential suite at the Ritz Carlton without some level of feelings existing.
Strong feelings.
Feelings that suddenly mean nothing and everything when he finally walks into the room. Showered once more, as he always does after the many different events that take place post Mania. Especially after a win.
But it's the casual appearance, the usual one that greeted her when he'd meet her in his suite after SmackDown and what said casual attire means that has her with her guard all the way up. Even more than before.
This bastard….
She marches over to him as he turns to ensure the door behind him is locked. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
He turns around, eyeing her up and down before chuckling and sauntering past like he didn't even hear her.
Karesse closes her eyes and reminds herself that she promised both herself and her baby girl that she'd never lay a hand on Roman like that again. It was wrong.
But he's fucking pushing it.
He's pushing her.
He always does.
She's right behind him, following his big frame as he plops down on the sofa. "Don't walk away when I'm talking to you."
Roman sits with his legs spread, phone in hand, focus on the screen that reflects in his eyes and highlights the faint bruise above his cheek.
She wishes Punk had hit his ass harder.
"So talk."
Her tongue hits the roof of her mouth like her anger meter ticks to the farthest right of the spectrum.
"What do you mean we'll see your ass all summer?" She jumps straight to it, knowing that time is not on her side for a variety of reasons. Too many possibilities grow exponentially with each minute she remains with the man before her. The longer she stays, the higher the chances she'll end up doing something she'll regret.
Always does.
"You're part time now."
He continues to tap away on his phone with one hand, the other resting on the top of the sofa with the way his arm is stretched out. Fuck, his big ass almost takes up on the whole damn sofa. "Not anymore."
"What do you mean not anymore?"
Roman finally decides to grace her with his attention, lifting his eyes from his phone only to look at her like she just asked him what color the sky is.
"I won the title."
Unfortunately. "I know."
Irritation mars his handsome face. For a second, she takes note of the bags under his eyes. He looks exhausted. Probably is.
Matches, especially longer ones like the master class he put on with Punk, always take more out of him that he likes to admit. If he's ever even admitted it to anyone. Because the way he disclosed it, disclosed his condition, almost quietly, during one of their many nights together as she sat on her knees behind him, hands working to smooth out the tight knots and kinks in his back and shoulders, it felt like an admission.
One meant for her ears and her ears only.
"So I have to defend it," he continues. "I have to kick off this title reign."
"You don't have to be full time to do that, Roman," she reminds. "Hell, you were part time for almost the entire last year of your last title reign. Have been part time for years now—"
"Yeah, well not anymore."
His interruption is sharp, to the point, and accompanied with that dip in his already deep ass voice. The subtle change in intonation that always prefaces him saying something to piss her the fuck off.
Too bad she beats him to it.
"Full time husband and father seemed to have gotten a lot shorter than I remember." She crosses her arms over her chest, fully aware of the anger that flashes in his eyes. She's also fully uncaring. "Or maybe just pretending to be all that is getting old."
His jaw ticks, and he looks away, running his hand through his beard she can tell he recently touched up, the gray hairs she used to lay in bed and count as he slept completely blended in. Black on black. He turns to look back at her. "Watch your mouth, Karesse."
She scoffs. "You really gon' sit there and tell me to watch my mouth?" Pointing to herself, she steps closer as his focus remains on her. "After the shit you said tonight? On live fucking TV for the whole world to hear?"
Several things were said this evening, but Karesse can still feel the way her entire body stilled, the sound of music playing, people laughing, completely drowned out. How Melo tensed next to her. Stark contrasts to the way Brie clung to her with one arm, the other extended as she pointed to the TV mounted in the corner of the private room.
"Hi, daddy!" She waved happily, as if Roman, who sat among the commentators wearing that smug expression, freshly obtained title sitting in front of him, could see his youngest child's happy greeting.
It briefly revived the bile in the back of her throat as she sat in the private box and watched him celebrate his win with them.
The gentle, heartfelt way he hugged and dapped his two sons. Kissed his other two daughters on the top of their head.
Kissed her.
Karesse was forced to blink away tears as she worked to distract her daughter from witnessing the sight that broke her mother's heart. That would one day break her own heart when childlike naivety could no longer shield her sweet baby girl from the devastating truth of her parental dynamics.
When she no long accepted why daddy could only spend the night sometimes and could only call her on the phone or FaceTime her on the tablet when bedtime rolled around and she just wanted to cuddle with him.
Truths Karesse, for her own mental sake, refuses to allow herself to think too much about. She will have to. Do more than just think. Will have to confront. But they're not there yet nor is she even close to working though all of the other present….shit that is is her life.
She would like to blame the crowd who kick-started it all. Carried over what's been heavily pushed online to something catapulted to the surface for the devil himself to address.
"Melo." Roman spoke in that smug ass tone that made her want to punch him in his face. Again. Eyes focused on the camera, it felt more like he was focused on her. Like he was speaking directly to her versus the man who stood beside her, his own retained title over his shoulder, other secured around her body, hand on her hip. "See, you seem still a little fresh in this business." A beat. "You did a big thing tonight, but I done that many times."
Everything after that was completely inaudible and stomped under the intensity of rage that she had to quell for the sake of the people around her, primarily the man beside her and the child in her arms.
Because to and for most, perhaps even Carmelo, it was nothing more than a reference to him retaining his US Championship title in his three way match against Sami and Trick. His first WrestleMania match.
But Karesse knew better.
She knows Roman, and she knows that his snide ass remark was nothing more than a cheap shot and dig to the fact that Carmelo, being the damn near perfect man that he is, of course utilized what should have been his moment to make it theirs. To jump out of the ring, greet her where she sat with close family and friends, on both their ends, and to reach for the small, red velvet box that his dad handed him with a huge smile on his face.
He proposed.
He proposed, and she said yes for over 50,000 attendees and God knows how many viewers watching through various streams to see.
Including Roman.
So no, while a clever cover, what with feeding into the massive push for a storyline and match between her now fiancé and ex/baby daddy/whatever the fuck he is, Karesse knew better.
She knows better.
Roman's hungry gaze rakes over her frame, the way she's bent over unintentionally allotting him an up close view of her cleavage, breast shoved and pushed together through her thin tank top.
"Did I lie?"
His simple, smartass comment, however, prevents her from focusing too much on the stare that creates a strange sense of discomfort and something she refuses to feed.
It reminds her why she's here.
"I am not a fucking toy, Roman!" Her volumes jumps at least two levels, but it seemingly has little to no effect on the man who's never looked more unbothered. "I'm not a punchline you can throw out there when you wanna prove who has the bigger fucking dick."
"Well, we both know the answer to that."
"I'm serious!" Karesse snaps. "This isn't a fucking game. This is my life. My life that you keep injecting yourself into when you have no business."
He sits forward, phone discarded to the side of him, matching both her energy and intensity. "You wanna drag my daughter across the country so you can be with your little boyfriend and expect me to be okay with it?"
"He's not my boyfriend." Karesse counters calmly. "He's my fiancé."
For whatever reason, there's an almost bitter aftertaste following that final word leaving her mouth. What should be some level of pride and excitement is nothing more than a bullet to lodge into Roman's hubris and to tackle his fragile ego.
It's….it's wrong. The sudden discomfort that stems from the ring on her finger. A placement that also feels….wrong.
But that's another issue for another day.
Regardless of confusing feelings, the objective is accomplished in the way he looks away, muttering darkly, "yeah, well, we'll see about that."
She scoffs. "You're unbelievable." A hypocrite. A fucking hypocrite is what he is, regardless of the fact that black band he's never seen without when the cameras are rolling is nowhere to be seen right now. It never is when he's with her. "I don't even understand what your goal is in this. You're on Raw now. Melo is on SmackDown. We won't even be in the same cities."
The closest they'll come to crossing paths is PLE's, and even then, the likelihood of Roman working any outside of the major ones that Melo most likely won't be on the card for is slim to none. So—
"Was." His interruption to her mental pondering draws her focus back to him. "He was on SmackDown."
Karesse grows silent, partially waiting for a follow-up that isn't even necessary. Not when she takes a step back to think about what he just said.
What it means.
Her shoulders drop. "What did you do?"
Roman, however, resumes his unbothered stance, leaning back against the sofa once more. "You heard the people. They want a feud between me and—"
"What did you do?" She interrupts, voice weighed down with grit and growing anger.
Head tilted, the small smile on his face has never made her feel so disgusted. "He's on Raw, effective as of next week."
"No. No." She shakes her head, unsure who she's attempting to convince at this point. Herself or the man who can never seem to just leave her alone. "He—he just retained tonight. The US Championship is a SmackDown title. He can't—"
"People drop titles all the time, Karesse." He shrugs. "Sometimes even at the first show after their big win."
She can only stare at him. Can only look with absolute disgust how fucking unbothered he is by some of the grimiest shit she's heard and seen in some time.
"What the fuck, Roman?" Karesse can barely contain her anger. Can feel her body trembling from the extent of rage she feels in this moment. Her palm burns with desire to connect with his stupid, smug ass face. "You're mad at and wanna punish me so you take it out on him? Fuck with his career?" It's disgusting. "What kind of weak ass shit is that?"
He keeps his vow low in tandem with his morality. "I told you to watch your mouth."
"Fuck you!" She snaps, completely uncaring of if her voice travels through what she would think are thick ass walls. Who gives a fuck. The whole floor could hear as far as she's concerned. "You're a pussy ass nigga for that!"
"I'm not gonna tell you again—"
"I don't care, Roman!" Her icy tone slices though his supposed indifference as he looks away and brushes the tip of his nose with his thumb. "That's what you don't seem to understand. I don't care about what pisses you off or upsets you." Karesse scoffs and shakes her head. "Why should I when you don't give a damn about me and my feelings?"
At that, he turns to look at her once more. To say she can't see the shift, the lessening caustic tone of his voice replaced with something familiar that she refuses to acknowledge. "You know that's not true."
"Oh?" Another scoff as she crosses her arms once more, fully prepared to throw at him every fact that, try as he might, he'll never be able to dispel. The truth can never be negated. "I tell you that I want to spend time on the road with my partner, my fiancé, and the first chance you get to fuck with that, to fuck with me—"
"No. You didn't say you wanted to go. You said he wanted you to go—"
"What difference—"
"The difference is that whenever you bring him up, it's what he wants. What he thinks. It's never what you want. And we both know why." Karesse refuses to rip her gaze away or break the eye contact between them even as he lifts his big body from the sofa. Stands directly in front of her, so close that craning her head up because of their height difference grants her a view close enough to see the specks of gold in his eyes. "It's because you don't want him. You can stand there and try do deny it all you want, but I know and you know it's truth."
The silence is damning. The sound of her heart beating wildly and erratically drowning out everything else.
But she can't let it win.
Can't let him win.
Can't let him keep winning.
"You know what I want, Roman?" Karesse steps forward, her voice a whisper that infiltrates the tension fueled silence. "I want you to stop interfering in my life. I want you to stop using our daughter as a pawn—"
"That's fucking bullshit and you know it—"
"No. It's not. It's the truth, and you know it." Karesse swallows, the exhaustion of this whole thing taking its toll when hurt bleeds into the frustration. "I do everything I can to keep our coparenting as peaceful as possible for the sake of Bri, but sometimes…."
"What?" He presses, tilting his head and pushing her in a way no one else can. Or ever will, most likely. The anger ebbed away by her own emotional pain easily picked up and utilized to maximize his vexation. "You want a formal custody agreement? Is that what you want?" She closes her eyes and drops her head. Here he goes. "Fine. Let's do it." Karesse lifts her head just in time to witness the sneer before the bomb. "You won't last five fucking minutes in that courtroom."
And just like that, all defenses are instantly dismantled. The drop of her shoulders, slight widening of her eyes and tightening of her chest preceding the intrusion of memories she'd give anything to rid herself of permanently.
"No!" Her shouts echoed throughout the courtroom as she worked to free herself from the hands persistent and hellbent at grabbing her. "I don't wanna go!" Tears filled her eyes as she refused to rip her eyes from Keith who wrestled against the court officers who restricted him. The judge's warnings drowned out under the sorrow of what'd just occurred. "Please, Mr. Judge! I wanna stay with Keith!" A beat. "I wanna stay with my brother!"
"Karesse."
It's the desperate, concerned call of her name that rips her from memories shoved so far to the back of her mind that despite years of trying her damn hardest, she's never been able to purge. Never been able to forget.
Never will.
"Fuck," Roman curses lowly, as she gradually returns to the reality before her versus the one behind. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I shouldn't—I shouldn't have said that."
Recognition continues to grow as she becomes aware of the fact that not only is he standing directly in front of her, but his hands are on her. Gently cupping her face, his lips pressed against her hairline. She closes her eyes, standing completely still, frozen in place and time as he continues to issue apology after apology.
Finally, however, the ice thaws enough for her to regain control.
To revoke the power from a past that's only ever debilitated.
She shoves at his chest, growling, "get the fuck off of me!"
He's unmoving, arms around her waist, keeping her boxed in. "Kar—"
"I said get off!"
But in true Roman fashion, he stands firm, feet planted and anchored into ground she feels trembling underneath her. Because that's what he always does. Causes the collapse while also standing ten toes down in and for the recovery effort. Always ready to catch what he made fall.
And she does just that.
The beating on his chest and shoving against his solid frame gradually settles and transitions into the way she clutches his shirt.
"How could—how could you s-say that to m-me?" She cries, hating the way his gentle touches, the way his coarse fingers stroke back her hair. and his hand on her hip tugs her just enough to where the desire to lean into him is all but unavoidable. He's like a vortex she can't seem to resist despite all the ways in which he absolutely can be resisted. "You know—"
"I know," he murmurs. Voice hoarse and almost pained, her eyes shut when he presses his lips to hair hairline and the material of his shirt becomes further intertwined in her fingers as her grip tightens. His as well. "I'm sorry." Resolve all but disappears as she finally stops her body's autonomous pull, falling into and against his chest. "You know I would never do that to you or Bri." Her lips press together, eyes clenching shut tighter when he cradles the back of her head. "I love you two too damn much to ever do that to ya'll."
And as sick as it might be, she believes him. Knows that he would, in fact, never do that. For reasons even beyond why such a cruel threat triggered her as much as it did. Because Karesse has been embedded too long in the game that is Roman Reigns to not know him better than most. To know that his inability to manage his temper when backed into a corner will almost always result in him resorting to the lowest of blows.
Followed by immediate regret.
It's become a pattern of theirs, and Karesse lost sight a while ago as to whether or not the recognition of said pattern allows her to forgive him as "easily" as she does. Because she knows he doesn't actually mean it.
Or if it's nothing more than reason #94825903 as to why this game of theirs is one she'll never be able to fully step away from.
Even if they didn't have Briella Mae.
"Stay with me tonight." She stills in his embrace, unsure exactly as to when she transitioned from clutching his shirt to wrapping her arms around him. "Bri, too," he adds, as if it wasn't a given. There has never been a just her since the birth of their daughter. What was once the two of them has been the three ever since. If she's in his suite, so is their baby girl. Naturally so. Because despite the dysfunction that is her parents dynamic, in Bri's eyes, nothing is more normal or right than staying in the same space as her mommy and daddy. "Please." The desperation in his voice tugs at that place in her heart that's never been able to resist him. The part that reciprocates his longing in every sense of the word. "I just want to be with you two."
Karesse can't tell which sickens her more. That in the span of less than five minutes he can go from saying the cruelest of shit to her to being the only person can who can soothe her as such—holding her, professing love, and issuing recompense in any way he can.
Or the fact that she agrees.
November 5th, 2021
The thrum of the base was resounding and relenting. Battling against the boisterous noise of a packed courtyard, bodies mushed together and arms raised with either phones in hand recording or drinks that were either seconds away from being downed or drowned in the sea of individuals, spilling onto the courtyard.
Karesse was in the latter of two groups.
Lips stretched into a broad smile that'd been on her face from the moment she and Amanda started pre-gaming. Music blasting as they helped each other get dressed, hair and makeup prioritized over outfits that left little to the imagination and snagged attention as soon as they sauntered in.
Her bare legs against the cool metal seating in the stadium was dulled out by adrenaline that beamed and soared watching the Panthers score a game winning touchdown in the last ten seconds of the game. The applause was thunderous. For her first two years of college, despite never having a strong interest in sports, she made it a mission to attend every football game. Mostly and primarily because batting her lashes at the right players always meant admission into the best parties.
Parties that, eventually, were a large part of the reason she fucked around and lost her scholarship.
But that was then, and Karesse had learned her lesson the hard way. It'd been forever and a day since she allowed herself to be dragged back to any frat house or off campus apartment. She knew better, but beyond that, she was doing better.
And tonight was not an exception to that. She'd more or less made Amanda swear a blood oath to not allow her to make any reckless ass decisions, and with her roommate and best friend also on the same 'we can't fuck around' grind, it made for the perfect accountability partner.
That didn't mean, however, that Karesse couldn't let loose. This was her senior year and thus her last chance to attend Homecoming. She wasn't about to miss out on a good time, especially when things were going so well in her life.
Better than well.
Way….way better than well.
"Oh shittttttt!" The DJ's voice boomed from his setup, transcending over the crowd and kick-starting various, similar sounds from fellow attendees. Including Amanda who stood beside Karesse and tugged on her arm.
Karesse smiled and lowered her arm to meet glazed over eyes that reflected a certain level of inebriation but not to the point that it deterred or concerned her. While they were both certainly a little tipsy, Karesse, like Amanda, knew their limits. Had partied hard enough their freshman and sophomore year to know now what was the end of the line. They were buzzed. That was about it.
"This our damn song." Amanda threw her hands up as Karesse stuck out her tongue playfully and threw her head back to down the rest of her drink before tossing the empty cup into the crowd.
"Damn sure is."
She easily ignored what sounded like someone protesting and began dancing with her friend, each lady singing out loudly and proudly to Doja Cat and Saweetie's collab that'd easily gone triple platinum in their household since its release.
But the ante was upped when the DJ transitioned to the next song that had Karesse ready to find the nearest table to jump on on so she could be allotted the room needed to shake ass like she really wanted to.
"Damn, I ain't seen your ass in a minute, Shaw."
The loud yet calm, smooth voice that managed to transcend the crowd gathered Karesse's attention. She immediately rolled her eyes. "You know I don't be outside like that no more."
Christian James smiled, emphasizing the dimples in his cheeks and the tooth gems on his canines. "Oh, trust me, I know."
Once upon a time, the 6'1 tight end with light eyes, a pretty smile, and a chiseled body with abs so defined and cut she could slice bread on and with them was someone Karesse cared about. As much as someone coming off an almost two year relationship and away at school for the first time could. They were in the same public speaking class and at the time, true to her nature, she'd been too shy to interact or introduce herself. Them sitting next to each other, however, resulted in him introducing himself, her doing the same, and the rest was history.
They'd vibed well enough, connected on a level she hadn't experienced with a guy outside of her ex, and they'd gone on a handful of dates. She'd rocked his Letterman at points. He made sure that she made it home safe from every party she attended and that no one ever took advantage of her during several nights of drinking to the point where she blacked out. Even leaving a note and Advil on the nightstand for her to take whenever she woke up. The whole nine yards. But at the end of the day, her lack of willingness to sleep with him ended up being the thing that made their flame fizzle out. And she understood it. She respected it, because she could see he tried his best to make it work, but like most guys her age, most men, he needed more.
And she wasn't able or willing to do that.
So they "broke up" in whatever way two people who never actually dated could.
Karesse never referred to him as her boyfriend and vice versa. It was an amicable parting, and they'd run into each other from time to time, but this was the first time they'd interacted beyond the small smile and nod of acknowledgment.
He raked his eyes over her. "You look good."
Karesse started to bite on her bottom lip but remembered her lipstick and instead returned the compliment. "So do you."
And he did.
He'd put on some weight since freshman year, and it looked good on him. His white polo clung to his muscles and highlighted the ink on his right bicep that she didn't recall.
It was that dark ink, however, that reminded Karesse of something.
Roman.
The unanswered texts and missed call she'd forgotten to return as his outreach attempts occurred in the midst of she and Amanda getting ready. She'd meant to call him back while Amanda drove them to campus, but it'd slipped her mind.
Fuck.
But the music transitioning to Juvenile, Amanda gleefully tugging on her arm, and Christian smirking at her all served as other forms of distraction. His eyes twinkled with mischief she understood fully.
"For old time's sake?"
It only took Karesse a minute to contemplate and decide. She could call Roman back later.
He'd understand.
She tilted her head and adjusted her dress, hiking it up mid thigh as she turned around and bent over. Looking back over her shoulder when he moved behind her and started to glide his hand down her back.
"You know it."
It took exactly three slamming on her finger against the snooze button for Karesse to finally find it in her to wake up. And even then, she'd laid in bed and groaned quietly at the sun that peaked through closed blinds for her to muster the strength just to sit up. An action that immediately made her wince as she scratched at her scalp through her bonnet. Stretching her arms made a sort of soreness shoot through her body that she hadn't experienced in a while.
Not since she went through two weeks of intense pole dancing lessons before being "approved" to hit the stage.
Sitting up in bed, leaning against her headboard, the prior night's events gradually returned to her recollection. She wasn't hungover. Didn't have that raging headache that made her bury her head under the covers and hide away in her dorm for hours on end until she could drag herself out of bed. But damn was she exhausted.
What time did we even get back in?
A question that made her grab her phone and drag her hand over her face as she typed in her passcode to unlock it. But the several red numbers next to the green icons at the bottom of the screen as well as the time reflected in the top right corner immediately made her stomach drop.
Fuck.
She never responded to Roman.
She frowned and cursed lowly, briefly contemplating waiting until later but given that it was already almost noon, later seemed like a not great idea.
Her fingers quickly navigated to his contact, thumb hovering over his number when she considered something. She was almost certain she'd never called him on a Sunday. Text, sure, but call?
It made her take pause.
What if….
Karesse took a deep breath and reminded herself that if he was….busy, he simply wouldn't answer the phone.
It was that simple.
She hit call.
Kicking the blankets back, she started to make a quick detour to make sure Amanda was alright but quickly remembered that she wouldn't have made it home if Amanda didn't. They were a package deal, and knowing her roommate, Manda was either also just waking up or still wrapped up in her blanket.
The ringing on the other end ceased as a second of noise followed a quiet, "hello."
"Hey," she smiled, hating the way she almost forgot that he couldn't see her. See the way her eyes lit up at hearing his voice that somehow sounded even deeper over the phone. It was something even more divine when he first woke up. "I'm sorry, I was—"
"Where the fuck were you, Karesse?"
Her smile instantly dropped. It was only then she realized that the harsh tone evoked with his question matched the almost clipped, tense way that he answered the phone. "I'm—I'm sorry?"
"I asked you a question." The frown on her face deepened with each confusing, acrid word that left his mouth. "Where the fuck were you?"
"I—" Stammering wasn't really a character trait of hers outside the first few minutes of meeting someone, and even then, it was more the quiet, short responses vs a clear indication of evident, palpable anxiety. But if there was a moment that called for such conduct, this was it. "I—I was out. It—it was Homecoming, and—"
"You were supposed to be there."
Somehow, the frown on her face deepened. "What?"
It wasn't like this irritated side of him was something she hadn't seen or experienced before. Months of them….whatever one would call it had allowed her to see that he could be….moody. Even more than that. He had a temper, for sure. She saw it firsthand every show she attended, but it was difficult to reconcile the man she saw on TV to the man she spent a good chunk of her time with. Even more, learning as much as she did and had about him, who he was as the Tribal Chief made all the sense.
Out there, he was who he had to be. With her, was who he wanted to be. They had their moments though, for sure. He could be a dick, and she wasn't for the temper tantrum.
Rarely, however, was this extent of that side of him directed towards her. Perhaps until now.
And especially this level of vitriol.
He sounded furious.
His level of anger, however, didn't make any sense to her.
Especially that last statement.
What was he—
And as if someone turned the light on in the room of realization, Karesse's stomach fucking dropped.
"Oh my God."
She ripped that phone away from her ear so quickly that it almost snatched her bonnet off in the process. Fingers hurriedly tapping at the screen to open up her calendar and click yesterday's date confirmed the worst.
Fuck.
She lifted the phone back to her ear, closed her eyes, and slammed her palm against her forehead. "Shit, Roman, I—I completely forgot."
Forgot felt like an understatement. Like the sort of thing one does when they miss an assignment or fail to pencil in an exam or added assignment to their planner. That was one thing.
Forgetting that he'd booked a flight and planned for her to attend his latest PLE was something entirely different.
And clearly, he felt the same.
"You forgot?" His tone, albeit understandable, made her wince. "How the fuck did you forget that?" Suddenly, the hangover wasn't looking so bad. Being on the receiving end of an upset Roman Reigns was the last thing on her itinerary for the day. "I told you about this weeks ago."
"I know. I know." She sighed and shook her head, suddenly wishing she'd have FaceTime'd him so he could see how truly apologetic she was and how bad she felt. "I guess, I just—I'm sorry. I'll be at the next one," she offered, hope revived. "I promise."
Even if she had to set reminders for every damn day leading up to said event, she would make sure this would never happen again.
"What makes you think you're invited?"
At that, her shoulders dropped.
Him making and organizing her flights to his shows or PLE's was a bit of a regular thing. Sometimes, it felt like she spent more time at the airport than her own apartment these days. Not that she ever complained. Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined being flew all over the country—and beyond—by a man like Roman.
And it wasn't even the underlying implication of his question that their arrangement was about to change that was shifting the tides away from regret. He had a right to be upset with her, sure. Time and money wasted would irritate anyone.
It was the level of his vitriol, however, that was starting to irritate her.
"Roman, I made a mistake, okay?" She scoffed. "I—"
"And who the fuck was that boy that you were all over?"
Another question that took her back for several and obvious reasons.
"What are you—"
But once more, another door opened as she once again pulled back her phone to navigate. This time to the app with the yellow icon that revealed several Snapchat stories she didn't even really remember uploading. Naturally, the sound was muted as it was being used for the phone call, but audio wasn't needed to understand what she was watching.
The motion of her ass bent over and twerking against a lap. Her being hoisted over a set of shoulders. The way she was laughing and giggling while posing with and against Christian and Amanda as well as a few other familiar faces. Several, as some of the clips surveyed the multitude of crowds she was immersed in. Truly playful, innocent moments that she could fully understand and see how he could see as otherwise.
She suddenly regretted showing him how Snapchat worked and making him an account. Remembered the way he grumbled about "never" using "that shit." But he'd made himself out to be a liar, because swiping up certainly revealed his username in the list of viewers.
Karesse closed her eyes once more.
This was a fucking mess.
Licking her lips, she blew out a breath and opted to switch to speaker, allowing the phone to settle into the sheets. "He—he's just a friend. Barely even that."
"I couldn't fucking tell."
Again, his tone lapped at her waning contrition.
"We didn't do anything." And he, of all people, should know that. "And I was just—I was just having fun." A good ass time that suddenly felt like the worst night of her life given the verbal reprimand she was receiving from the least expected person ever.
"You had an obligation, Karesse." Something about his tone, disciplinary almost, struck something within her. "I don't understand—"
"Oh my God, it was one show. What's the big fucking deal?" She snapped, partially aware of where the sudden defensiveness was coming from but fully unwilling to acknowledge said source.
But if he was angry before, he was pissed following her matching his energy. His voice a borderline growl on the other end with an uncharacteristic undertone of desperation and anxiety. "The big fucking deal is that I needed you there!"
"I've gone to almost all of your shows since we met, Roman! Why did I need to be at this one?" If not actually all of them, and even though she didn't have the results of his match, she already knew it wasn't like he lost so what was his fucking malfunction?
Karesse threw her hands up, fully frustrated and flustered, hating the way her eyes were starting to water and her chest was tightening. "For fucks sake, I'm 21, and it was my last Homecoming. Sue me for being a stupid college kid who just wanted to let loose for one fucking night! What do you expect?"
The silence on the other end was both unexpected and unsettling, the latter magnified exponentially when his voice took a 180.
"You're right," he said. The almost calm intonation making her stomach churn and cuddle. He hadn't sounded like that since....since he found out she'd lied to him about her age. "What was I expecting?"
She closed her eyes. Fuck. "Roman—"
Her station eclipsed by the call dropping occurred in tandem with the collapse of something deep within her chest.
a/n: so, obviously, there are a handful of similarities between this and the 'with series' what with karesse being a long-term mistress, if we will. so i did my best to make her characterization and backstory the opposite of reader as well as gave this storyline a shit ton more layers. this one will def fuck with your head cause the nuances are insane. karesse and roman are....something. a hell of a lot more backstory in part two as well as wifey's pov.
❛ thriller era!michael jackson 𝑥 popstar!reader ❜ ╱ 𝒸hapter one.
ⓘ media rivalry, lots of banter & passive aggressive flirting if you squint, michael is a shmuck (for now) ➥ navigation.
january 1983 — los angeles, california
the first article appeared three days after christmas. you ignored it. the second showed up a week later. you ignored that one too. by the time january arrived, they were impossible to avoid.
❝ the new princess of pop.❞
❝ the female answer to michael jackson.❞
❝ is thriller’s biggest competition already here?❞
you stared at the magazine cover sitting on your kitchen counter while your makeup artist flipped through another one nearby.
“they’re getting bold now.”
you snorted. “they’re getting stupid.”
the cover featured a photo of you from the christmas gala and directly beside it was michael jackson. the editors had intentionally placed the pictures next to each other. your smile & his smile, your recent hit climbing the charts & his album currently taking over the entire world. it wasn’t subtle in the slightest. instead, it was bait.
“have you even met him?” your stylist asked.
you grabbed your coffee as you debated if you really wanted to talk about him in your own free time, when you have to be bombarded with him everywhere else.
“once.”
“what was he like?”
you thought about the shrine auditorium and the way he’d looked at you. the strange tension that had existed for all of thirty seconds.
“dramatic.”
your stylist cackled at your aloof answer.
“well, according to these magazines, you two are about to start world war three.”
the american music awards were somehow louder than every nightmare you’d imagined.
camera flashes erupted from every direction the second you stepped backstage, reporters shouting over one another while publicists rushed around with clipboards pressed tightly against their chests. assistants hurried past carrying garment bags. executives shook hands and exchanged smiles that never quite reached their eyes.
the entire building felt alive, you had attended industry events before but nothing like this. this was different because this was your first real award season.
your first time standing shoulder-to-shoulder with artists you’d spent years watching from your living room television. people whose posters hung on bedroom walls, people whose records filled your collection, people who suddenly treated you like you belonged beside them—it was exciting yet terrifying.
unfortunately for you, michael jackson was everywhere. his face decorated promotional banners hanging from the ceilings as his songs drifted through speakers between commercial breaks. his name seemed to echo from every corner of the venue. it was impossible to take three steps without hearing it.
“michael!”
“michael, over here!”
“one more picture, michael!”
you rolled your eyes hard.
the man had somehow become the center of gravity, the entire room revolved around him. part of you hated how much it irritated you, the other part hated that the magazines weren’t helping.
for weeks they’d been comparing the two of you. every article, every interview, every headline, basically calling you ‘the female michael jackson.’
you were beginning to despise all of them because every time you opened a magazine, there he was. every time you saw his face, you wanted to prove them wrong or perhaps prove them right, you honestly weren’t sure anymore.
hours later, you found yourself accepting the best new artist award and surviving what felt like a hundred interviews, you finally found a moment to breathe.
the trophy felt heavier than expected in your hands. you were studying the engraved plaque with a proud grin, tears almost wanting to well in your eyes. that’s when a voice appeared beside you.
“congratulations.”
you immediately recognized it, i mean who wouldn’t. you turned to the familiar tabloid king.
michael stood beside you holding one of his own awards beneath his arm. perfect curls, perfectly tailored suit and his perfect smile, you already hated it.
“thank you.” you said in your most perfect poised voice, well, as poised as you could be.
“big night for you.” he continued.
you forced a polite smile, “i could say the same.”
“well,” michael adjusted his grip on the trophy. “some people have been saying that.
you blinked as he blinked, both smiling yet neither smiling.
“i’m sure they have,” you sneered. “must be exciting.”
“it is.” he was annoying casual, it made your blood boil.
“that’s good.” you matched his energy.
“thank you.”
“you’re welcome.”
you let the silence sit and consume the both of you for a good minute. or two. almost three. the air somehow became heavier but neither of you looked away nor did either of you back down—it was ridiculous.
you’d spoken maybe twenty words to each other, yet somehow it already felt like a competition.
michael finally nodded, “see you around.”
“you probably will.” another smile, this time with just enough teeth to qualify as one.
then he went on his way. you watched him disappear into the crowd of executives and photographers.
what an asshole.
across the room, michael glanced over his shoulder one final time. his eyes landed on you for half a second before he looked away again.
what an asshole.
the interviews got worse as the night went on. though, it started simple.
“you’ve had an incredible year. how does it feel being one of the biggest breakout stars in music right now?”
you smiled, “it’s exciting. i’m grateful people are connecting with the music.”
that was the easiest question of the night, then came along the next reporter.
“there’s been a lot of comparisons between you and michael jackson recently. what do you think about that?”
and there it was. despite all, you kept your smile in place.
“i think michael is incredibly talented.”
the reporter leaned forward, “but?”
“there is no but.”
a few journalists laughed as the reporter who spoke got awfully quiet, you considered that a victory.
unfortunately, it didn’t stop there. there was yet another microphone accompanied with a camera shoved in your face.
“do you see him as competition?”
“i see everybody as competition.”
the crowd reacted immediately. someone behind a camera muttered, “that’s a headline.”
damn it. the twisting of narratives had just began.
somewhere across the venue, michael wasn’t having much better luck. as you were walking down, you caught part of one of his interviews.
“there’s a lot of buzz surrounding her right now. any thoughts?”
michael adjusted his jacket, like he didn’t even want to acknowledge the question. “she seems very nice.”
the interviewer laughed.
“that’s not exactly what we asked.”
“that’s my answer.”
“do you think she could reach your level of success?”
of course the reporter had some nerve, throw one artist under the bus to get something out of another.
michael displayed a polite smile.
“i think people should focus on her accomplishments instead of comparing her to someone else.”
he caught the crowds attention, accompanied with collective “ooohs”
“so you’re saying she isn’t competition?”
michael’s annoying smile widened.
“i didn’t say that.”
you narrowed your eyes as you listened in.
asshole.
later, near the exit, a reporter cornered you. “last question.”
you immediately knew it wasn’t.
“if you and michael jackson released albums on the same day, who would sell more records?”
the cameras leaned closer. you smiled—almost the same ignorant one that michael had.
“i guess we’ll find out.”
the reporters erupted and across the room, michael looked up just in time to hear it.
his eyebrow lifted in suspicion, but all you could do was smile wider.
tomorrow’s headlines were going to be unbearable & you couldn’t wait.
Summary: Eighty-five years after Soldier Boy left you behind, he finds you frozen, kept as leverage, and drags you back into a world you never got to live. Far from Vought’s spotlight, you and Ben try to stitch a marriage back together from ash.
(sequel to "the softest thing")
Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader
Warnings: Language, angst
Word Count: 10178
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
The file hit his lap. Ben looked down with the kind of flat, exhausted annoyance he had been wearing since he woke up in that obscene room high over the city. Homelander’s room. Homelander stood across from him bright-eyed.
“Think about it again”, he had said. Then the file.
Ben almost told him to go fuck himself twice. His fingers were already closing around the folder to throw it. Then he saw the label. A name. Not yours when you were his wife. Not Mrs. anything. Not the name on the marriage license, or the bills, or the little card at the dry cleaner back when there had still been ordinary days. Your name. The one from before him.
Ben went still. The suite got very quiet.
Ben looked down at the folder again. SUBJECT STATUS: CRYOGENIC CONTAINMENT STABLE
For one second his brain refused to understand the words in the right order. Then it did.
His thumb slipped under the edge and opened the file.
The first page was a photograph. Black-and-white. Studio-lit. Clinical in a way that made his stomach turn. You were in your twenties in it.
He knew that before the file told him, because he knew your face. Not the lined, careful face you might have worn if life had kept happening to you. Not the older version time should have made. This was you as you had been when he left you. Soft mouth, watchful eyes, hair set neatly back from your face, trying so hard in the picture to look composed that it hurt to see.
Twenty-seven. Frozen there. Eighty-five years gone and not a day on your face.
Ben stopped breathing. Below the photograph, line after line of text blurred and sharpened and blurred again.
Initial retrieval.
Unauthorized domestic association with asset.
Emotional leverage viability high.
Compound V survivability unexpectedly successful.
Long-term storage authorized.
Pressure contingency.
Pressure contingency.
Pressure contingency.
His hand tightened on the page hard enough to crease it.
Across the room, Homelander lifted his glass and watched him with open interest. “She´s alive”.
Ben did not look up. The suite had narrowed to the file in his hands and the sound of blood rushing hot and violent in his ears.
There were more pages. Medical charts. Temperature logs. Monitoring summaries. A diagram of some buried facility with sectors blacked out in thick ink. One page clipped in later than the rest with a new date stamped at the top and a note:
Subject remains non-public. Retention advised. Utility value may increase if Soldier Boy becomes noncompliant.
Ben stared at that line until the letters stopped being letters and became something else. Something with teeth.
He had thought leaving you had been the worst thing he ever did to you.
Not because he had not done worse things to other people. He had. Plenty. Enough to wake sweating with names he never let himself say out loud.
But leaving you, walking out of that little kitchen for good, letting Vought sand down whatever was left of Ben until Soldier Boy fit cleanly over the top, had always sat in him like rust. Hidden. Eating through from the inside.
And all that time… All that goddamn time…
They had had you.
Kept.
Stored.
“I figured that might get your attention”.
Ben lifted his head then. Slowly. He had looked dangerous before. Hungover, heavy-eyed, broad across the shoulders even in borrowed clothes. Now he looked like something much older and uglier than danger.
Homelander’s expression flickered, just a little, delighted and cautious at once.
“She was always there”, he said lightly, as if discussing an old account finally brought current. “Cute trick, really. Vought keeps all sorts of contingencies. You of all people should appreciate preparedness”.
Ben rose from the couch.
“So”, Homelander said. “Now that you understand the leverage, are you ready to be useful?”.
“You knew”.
Homelander tilted his head. “I know lots of things”.
“You knew”, Ben said again.
The file hung at his side, crushed under his fingers now, your photograph bent where his grip had warped the paper.
Homelander gave a small shrug. “I knew enough”.
That was all it took. Ben crossed the room. He caught Homelander by the throat and hit him through the edge of the bar. Marble split. Bottles exploded and glass sprayed the room.
Homelander laughed. Even half-crushed under Soldier Boy’s hand, he laughed.
“Ah”, he choked out, eyes bright and mad, “there he is”.
Ben hit him again. This time the sound was wetter. Angrier. A lamp went over. A slab of black stone cracked down the middle.
Homelander’s smile came back bloodied.
“She’s alive”, he rasped. “That’s the important part”.
Ben’s fingers tightened at his throat. For one terrible second, he really might have killed him. Then Homelander, even pinned and bruised and half-grinning through blood, said the one thing that cut clean through the red:
“You kill me, you lose her”.
Ben froze. Homelander smiled wider despite the hand at his neck.
Ben looked at him and saw, all at once, every Vought man he had ever hated. The executives with polished shoes. The handlers. The doctors. The ones who turned human beings into concepts and concepts into assets and assets into pressure. Homelander was just the latest model, shinier, but made from the same rotten blueprint.
Very slowly, Ben let him go.
Homelander staggered back, still smiling because he could not help himself. Because getting under skin was the only intimacy he understood.
Ben wiped his bleeding palm on his shirt and looked down at the file again. Your picture stared back up at him. Twenty-seven.
A whole life stolen and held in a drawer.
His chest went tight in a way no fight had ever managed. Not even Russia. Not the furnace. Not the years in a tube under a foreign sky while his own name turned into a mascot and then a joke and then a warning.
You.
He thought of the side yard between your houses. Your mittened fingers tucked into his elbow. Your voice, soft and bossy at sixteen: Hold still. The little kitchen table where you had cleaned blood off his face while his father’s voice still rang in his ears, calling him a fucking disappointment. The way you had looked at him when nobody else looked at him like there was anything worth saving.
He had left you.
That was his sin.
But this… This was something else.
They had taken what he left behind and turned it into inventory.
Homelander straightened. “Get Butcher for me”, he said, as if the room were not half-destroyed around them. “And I show you where she its”.
-
The air bit cold enough to sting the back of your throat just breathing it. Frost filmed the pipes overhead. Ben stood in the middle of the bunker, bloody from wrist to collar. Some of it was his. Most of it wasn’t. Bodies lay where they had fallen. One by the far control panel, neck bent wrong over a spill of shattered glass. Two by the blast door, rifles kicked out of reach. One half-slumped against the wall. Another near the alarm box, hand frozen inches from the switch he never got to hit in time.
Ben had not made much noise doing it. That was what frightened him now, standing there with the little remote in his hand and your tank in front of him.
Not the killing itself. He had done too much of that for it to feel new.
Not even the speed of it.
It was how easy it had been. How clean. How Soldier Boy it had felt.
The remote was small in his palm. One red button under a flip-cover guard. Ridiculous, really, that after eighty-five years, after Russia and fire and Butcher and Homelander and all the rot in between, the distance between him and you had come down to one ugly little button.
He stared at it. Did not move. In front of him, behind a curved wall of glass gone pearly with cold, you stood upright in the tank. Frozen. Perfectly still. Twenty-seven.
That was the first thing that had wrecked him when Homelander shoved the file at him in the tower. Not the reports. Not the coordinates. Not even the word cryogenic typed in neat black letters above your name.
Your age. Twenty-seven.
He had been old enough to rot and be reborn and rot again. The world had gone through wars and presidents and hairstyles and goddamn moons and computers in people’s pockets.
He had been buried under Russian steel while his own legend got sold by men who had never once had to dirty their own hands.
And you were still twenty-seven.
Still wearing the same face he remembered from the last years before he left.
Softer in rest than in life, maybe, because whatever fear or sorrow Vought had dragged through you hadn’t made it through the ice.
Your hair was pinned back from your face by frost and suspension gel and machinery he did not understand. Your lashes lay dark against your skin. Your mouth looked pale and closed and familiar enough to stop his heart. You looked exactly like all those years ago.
And the second he saw you, all the time between then and now collapsed so violently it left him dizzy.
The little house. The kitchen table. Rain on the windows. Your pink satin nightgown. Your face wet with tears while he stood in the doorway and let Soldier Boy win.
He had imagined finding you a hundred different ways on the drive out here. Older. Dead. Bones in a box. A grave with some false name.
He had not imagined this.
You looked like you could open your eyes any second and ask why he was home so late.
Ben’s fingers tightened around the remote until the casing creaked.
He was afraid. Afraid of pressing a button. B
ecause once he did, it became real. Once he did, there would be no more distance between the idea of you and your body in front of him.
You might wake and not know him. You might wake and know him too well. You might look at him and see only the man who left. Worse—you might not wake right.
Vought had held you for eighty-five years like inventory. Shot you full of V and put you under glass. Used your name as leverage in files. He had no reason to trust anything about what came next.
“Jesus Christ”. He stepped closer to the tank.
Up close, he could see where frost feathered over the seams of the metal braces holding the glass in place.
Tubes snaked from the back of the chamber into your arms, your spine, the base of your skull. Machines had been kissing you longer than he had.
The thought made something black roll over in him.
He lifted his free hand and pressed his palm to the glass. The cold bit instantly through blood and skin.
Behind the fogged surface, your face stayed calm. Untouched by any of it. Soft in that old familiar way that used to wreck him even when he was a boy with split knuckles and too much pride.
You had always looked gentler than the world deserved.
He bowed his head once, just enough that his forehead nearly hit the glass. Blood from his hand smeared across the frost in a rust-dark streak. For a second, all he could see was another kind of red. Lipstick on a collar. Then your tears. Your wedding band glinting while you tried not to cry in front of him.
All the little moments he had buried under war and whiskey and Vought work and rage because digging them up would mean admitting what he had done with his own hands.
His thumb found the edge of the safety cover on the remote and flipped it open. Ben’s heartbeat kicked hard. Then something inside him, something older than Soldier Boy and uglier than pride and maybe closer to Ben than he had been in years, made the decision for him. He pressed the button.
For one horrible second, nothing happened. Then the chamber gave a low hydraulic thud. Lights changed from green to amber. Somewhere under the floor, machinery woke in layers—pumps, vents, hissing valves releasing pressure in precise bursts.
Frost shivered loose from the tank seams and fell in powdery sheets. The hum deepened into a mechanical roar.
Ben took one step back, then stopped himself and stood his ground.
Amber turned to white. Warm fluid began draining in spirals around your body, slipping down the inside of the glass in pale pink streaks where blood had mixed into the solution somewhere in the tubing.
Numbers on the monitor started changing faster now. You did not move.
Ben’s throat tightened until breathing hurt. “Come on”, he muttered.
The glass clouded, then cleared in patches. Your skin changed color by degrees, from the waxy stillness of preserved flesh to something nearer living. Frost melted from your lashes. One lock of hair slipped loose against your temple. The line of your mouth softened as the cold released it. Still nothing.
Ben stepped closer again without realizing he had. The chamber hissed. A latch somewhere deep in the mechanism disengaged with a heavy clunk. Then your fingers twitched. So small he might have imagined it in another life. Not now. Ben stopped breathing altogether.
A second later your hand jerked again, this time harder, tendons pulling under your skin. Your chest gave a shallow, ragged hitch as if your body had forgotten the shape of breath and was trying to relearn it by force.
The front seal cracked with a metallic snap. Ben was moving before the door had fully opened. It swung out in a gust of freezing vapor, and you pitched forward with the dead weight of someone waking into gravity after a century.
Tubes tore free. Glassy fluid spilled over the lip of the tank onto the floor. Your knees buckled instantly.
Ben caught you.
Your body convulsed against him. Then you coughed. Ben looked down and saw the tube shifting at the back of your throat. “Shit”.
He dropped to one knee in the spill of coolant and freezing fluid, one arm locked behind your shoulders to keep you upright. The other hand hovered for a second over the tubing, his fingers slick with blood and condensation.
You gagged again, harder this time. “Easy”, he said, though his own voice was shot through with something dangerously close to panic. “Easy, sweetheart, I got it”.
He had no idea if he did.
He slid two fingers carefully to the base of the tube, trying to ignore how unnatural it looked disappearing past your lips, trying to ignore the old terror that came whenever your body was involved and his hands had to do something delicate.
His touch, for once, was painstakingly light. Your throat worked around the plastic. Another cough tore through you. Ben pulled. The moment it cleared your mouth you folded forward with a choking gasp. Your forehead knocked weakly against his collarbone. Cold fluid soaked through the front of his shirt where you leaned against him. You kept coughing. Your whole body shook with it.
“Breathe”, he said, low and rough. “Come on. There you go”.
There were wires everywhere. Thin sensor leads plastered to your skin. Adhesive pads at your icollarbone, your ribs, your temples. A cluster of ports and lines trailed from your back and arms and disappeared into the ruined chamber behind you.
The monitor to the side was beeping too fast now, numbers climbing. Ben glanced at it once. He didn’t know what most of it meant. But he knew the sound of a heart trying to decide whether it belonged in a living body again. Fast. Wrong. Then skipping. Then racing.
His jaw tightened. “C’mon”, he muttered, more fiercely now. “Don’t do this”.
He reached for the first wire at your chest and peeled it back with maddening care. Then another. Then another. The adhesive came loose with soft wet sounds against your skin. His fingers shook once when one of the leads snagged in your hair and you flinched faintly even half-conscious.
“Sorry”, he said instantly. The word left his mouth before he could stop it.
He stared at your face after saying it, as if even now some part of him expected you to open your eyes just to tell him it was too late for apologies. But your eyes stayed shut. Your mouth was parted, drawing in broken little breaths that. Every now and then another cough shuddered through you, weaker than the one before.
Ben stripped the last wire from your throat and shoulder, then found more at your wrists. At the inside of your elbows. At the base of your neck. Whoever had put you in there had instrumented every inch of you like they were trying to measure a miracle and own it.
He tore the leads free one by one. The monitor screamed once before the rhythm smoothed. Still too quick and shallow. But steadier.
Ben went still long enough to listen. And there was your heartbeat. Fast. Frightened… Human.
He frowned and looked toward the monitor again. That made no sense. They had pumped you full of V. He knew that from the file, from the notes. He had come down here half-prepared to find something else in the tank. Some glowing-eyed Vought experiment wearing your face. Some twisted answer to a question nobody should have asked.
But your heart didn’t sound like his. Didn’t sound like Homelander’s, his own or any of the monsters and mascots he had spent too much of his life around. It sounded breakable. Human.
Your breathing hitched again and your eyelids fluttered.
Ben’s pulse hammered. He had faced gunfire with less dread. He could fight. Kill. Blow through steel doors. March into a bunker alone and paint the walls with guards and not blink. But waiting for your eyes to open… that nearly undid him.
Because now there was nothing between you. Now it was just you waking up. And him. The man who left. The husband who broke your heart before strangers finished the job. The one who had not come back in time. Not in 1970. Not in 1980. Not in any of the years after that.
The one who had let himself become Soldier Boy so completely that the company had thought the only way to control him was to freeze the last soft part of his old life and keep it in storage.
Ben sat back on his heels in the freezing slush and watched your face with the kind of terrible focus that made everything else disappear. A dozen possibilities chased each other through his head, none of them good.
You might wake confused. You might wake screaming. You might wake and remember only the worst of him. You might wake and hate him on sight.
You had every right.
That last thought lodged in him hardest.
Did you still hate him? Worse—had the hatred had eighty-five years to sharpen somewhere inside whatever dreaming half-life Vought had trapped you in?
Or had the ice kept you right at the moment of your ruin, your grief as fresh as blood under skin?
Ben rubbed a hand once over his mouth and came away with red still drying there from someone else. He looked down at it with sudden disgust and wiped it on the concrete.
Your heartbeat jumped again. His attention snapped back to you instantly.
“Hey”, he said. “Stay with me”.
Your fingers closed weakly around two of his without any strength in them at all. The contact hit him so hard it almost made him bow forward.
There you were. Cold. Half-conscious. Newly dragged from eighty-five years of dark. And still, by some reflex too old for either of you to kill, your hand had reached.
Ben swallowed hard enough it hurt. “I know”, he said softly, though you had not spoken. “I know”.
He didn’t know what he meant by it. That he knew you were frightened? That he knew he shouldn’t be the one you woke up to? That he knew exactly what kind of man he had been the last time you saw him properly and how impossible it was to ask for anything gentler from this moment?
Maybe all of it.
Your breathing steadied a little more. Still shaky. Still too quick. But less torn-up on the way in. Less like drowning.
The lights buzzed overhead. Down the corridor, a distant alarm warbled and cut out, maybe killed by the same broken circuits that had left this section half running on backup. Cold fog curled low around the empty chamber. Corpses stared at the ceiling in silence. And in the middle of all of it, Soldier Boy knelt on a concrete floor holding your hand like it was the only thing in the world he couldn’t afford to break.
Your lashes trembled again. This time your eyes opened halfway. Blurred. Unfocused. They moved over the room in fragments—white light, concrete, the silver of the blankets around you, the dark shape of him kneeling in front of you.
Your brow drew faintly, confusion coming first. Then discomfort. Then the weak animal fear of waking somewhere wrong.
Ben saw the exact second your gaze snagged on his face and tried to make sense of it.
He was older. The face was still Ben’s. The damage wasn’t.
Recognition came slowly and painfully in pieces. Your lips parted. No sound at first.
Ben’s chest went tight. “Don’t push it”, he said, instinctively rough, then caught himself and lowered his voice. “You don’t gotta—”.
Your mouth worked again. This time a thread of breath shaped itself into a word so faint he almost thought he imagined it. “Ben…?”.
There was no hate in your voice. Not yet. Not understanding either. Just stunned, impossible recognition.
His eyes closed for one beat. When he opened them again, something naked had slipped through the cracks in his face before he could stop it. “Yeah”, he said. “It’s me”.
Your gaze held on him, still struggling to focus, still dragged under by cold and waking and the sheer wrongness of the room. He could see your mind trying to fit him somewhere it understood and failing.
The last Ben you knew should have been twenty-something and standing in a little house with his shadow too long on the wall. Not this.
Your fingers tightened weakly around his. Then your gaze dropped to the blood on him. To the bodies beyond. Back to the tank. Confusion turned to fear in a quick, bright flare.
Ben felt it like a knife. “No”, he said at once, too fast. “No, easy. You’re okay”.
That was a lie, and both of them knew it.
But he could not bear the look in your eyes when it landed on the room.
He shifted closer, slowly enough to give you time to recoil if you wanted to. You tensed anyway. Only a little. Only instinct. Still enough. Ben stopped right there. His throat worked once. “I know”. The words were almost to himself.
He loosened his hand under yours, giving you the room to let go if that was what you wanted. His other hand stayed braced on the concrete beside your hip.
“You were in there”, he said quietly, glancing toward the tank. “They had you under. Long time”. His mouth tightened. “I got you out”.
Your eyes flicked to the tank again, then back to him. Your voice, when it came, was no more than a scrape. “How…?”.
Ben let out a breath through his nose.
How did one answer that? How did one bridge war and Vought and Homelander and files and eighty-five years buried under concrete and ice?
He chose the only part that mattered first. “I found you”.
Your lashes fluttered. Confusion still clouded everything. “You left”, you whispered. The words were so weak they should not have had any force at all. They hit him like a bullet.
Ben went motionless.
Of course. Of course that was the first clear thing. Not the bunker. Not the blood. Not the impossible machinery.
Him leaving. The door. The kitchen table. The keys.
Your mind had come back through ice and nightmare and whatever half-life Vought had forced on you, and the first solid fact it reached for was the one that hurt most.
He looked at you and did not even try to defend himself. “Yeah”, he said.
Your face changed, not into anger exactly, because you were too weak yet for anything so hot. More like the old wound had opened before the rest of you had even finished waking.
Ben felt panic rise in him then. Helplessness. The kind he had always hated most.
Just then, your world tipped sideways.
One second you were looking at him and the next, everything in you simply gave out.
Your fingers slipped from his. Your eyes rolled shut.
Ben caught you before your head hit the concrete. “Hey”.
The word cracked out of him, sharp with fear.
He felt for your pulse before he even realized he was doing it, two fingers at the side of your throat, then lower when his hand shook too much to trust the first reading.
Your heartbeat was still there. Fast, too thin, but there. Your breathing came shallow and uneven against the front of his shirt. You were alive. Just unconscious.
Ben closed his eyes for half a second and let the relief hit him hard enough to make his teeth grit.
Then he wrapped the blankets tighter around you, slid one arm behind your back and the other beneath your knees, and lifted you with a care that would have looked unnatural on anybody who knew what his hands could do.
Your head fell against his chest. Damp hair brushed his throat.
He got out of the bunker before the next wave came.
More alarms. More men. Maybe Vought cleanup. Maybe Homelander changing his mind.
He didn’t stay to find out.
The car crooked in the gravel behind the bunker entrance, engine still idling.
He laid you in the back seat of the car he’d taken from the last guard first, then stopped, swore under his breath, and moved you again.
“No”, he mumbled.
Not back there. Not where he couldn’t hear every breath right beside him.
So he settled you in the front instead, reclined the seat as far as it would go, belted you in with maddening care, then pulled both emergency blankets up to your chin before slamming the door and getting behind the wheel.
He took back roads first, then frontage roads, then some dark stretch of highway lined with shut gas stations and chain restaurants glowing in the distance. He didn’t know where he was going until he saw a motel sign.
The place sat off a quiet road outside town, the sort of motel people used when they didn’t want questions or company.
Ben carried you in through the side entrance of room twelve with the key still warm from the clerk’s hand.
Inside, the room was dim and ugly and blessedly quiet.
He set you down on the bed and for a second he just stood over you.
Your face was pale against the motel pillow. Your lips still had that bluish cast around the edges that scared the hell out of him. Coolant and thawed frost and fluid had soaked through everything. Blood, other people’s, maybe some yours, marked the silver blanket and his ruined jacket wrapped around your shoulders.
You looked small.
Not fragile exactly. You had always hated that word. But small in a way the world had no business making you.
Ben turned on the bathroom light. Found washcloths, thin towels, a sealed little bar of soap. Ran the sink until water came hot enough to steam.
He went back out with a wet towel and sat on the edge of the bed.
Then he hesitated.
Not because he hadn’t seen your body. Christ, he had. A thousand times, in better years and worse. In satin and cotton and nothing at all. In the narrow bed of your first house with summer heat making the sheets stick, in dark mornings before he left for work, in the rare soft pauses where he had once believed wanting and keeping were the same thing.
That was exactly why it hit him so hard now.
Because all those memories came from a life before he broke the right to any of this.
Still, you were half-frozen and unconscious and shaking every now and then in little leftover aftershocks. He could not leave you soaked in chemicals and blood.
So he did what needed doing. Carefully.
He cleaned you with warm water and the washcloth, rinsing fluid and blood from your arms, your shoulders, your legs, your throat. Wiped the residue of adhesive from your skin where the sensors had been. Smoothed damp hair away from your face with fingers that dwarfed your temple and yet somehow barely touched.
Every now and then he stopped just to listen.
Heartbeat. Breathing. Human. Still there.
When you shivered hard enough to make your teeth knock together in your sleep, he stripped off the ruined top half of his suit without a second thought. Underneath, he had the long-sleeve undershirt Vought had built under the costume warm from his own skin. He pulled it over his head and for a second stood there in only his suit pants.
Then he dressed you in it.
That took longer than it should have. One limp arm at a time. Your head supported in the crook of his elbow while he eased the shirt down over you. The fabric swallowed you whole, hem falling to your thighs, sleeves past your wrists. His shirt on your body looked indecently intimate in a way that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with history.
He hated how much that undid him.
By the time he got you under the blankets, you were warmer than before. Not warm enough. But no longer ice. Ben sat beside you and stayed there.
-
At 2:07, you woke with a gasp that hurt all the way down.
The room lurched into view in broken pieces.
A yellow lamp with a stained shade. Floral curtains pulled almost shut. A ceiling painted the color of old nicotine. The stale smell of motel soap, dust and somebody else’s cigarettes soaked into the carpet long before you ever got here.
Your body felt wrong in every possible direction and for one wild second, you did not know where you were.
Then you tried to move and everything came back badly.
The tank. The bunker. The blood.
Ben.
You pushed yourself up on instinct. Pain and dizziness hit at once. Your head swam. Your stomach turned over hard enough to make you press one hand against it. The blankets slid down your lap. Something warm and steady moved in the chair beside the bed.
“Don’t do that”.
His voice came low and immediate. Awake already. Waiting.
You turned your head.
Ben sat in the chair by the bed with his elbows on his knees. He had no shirt on. Only those green superhero suit pants still clung to him.
He looked tired enough to split. His hair was damp, pushed back from his face by impatient fingers. There was gray at his temples now, not the gray of age so much as damage that had decided to show itself there first. Faint scars cut across his chest and shoulder, old and pale. His eyes stayed fixed on you with the kind of concentration men used on bombs.
You realized then that what you were wearing was not yours.
A dark long-sleeve shirt swallowed your body whole. It smelled like soap and something underneath it that was unmistakably him. Not cologne. Not city. Not the chemical glitter that had clung to him in the last years before he left…. Just Ben.
Your throat went tight.
He saw your gaze drop to the shirt.
“You were freezing”, he said. The explanation came out rough, almost defensive, like he was bracing for accusation. “You had all that fluid shit on you”.
You tried to speak too quickly. Your voice came out scraped raw.
“What—”. You stopped to swallow.
Ben was already reaching for the bottle on the nightstand. You took a sip and looked around the room again, slower this time. Cheap dresser. One door with a heavy chain lock. A purse-sized Gideon Bible on the nightstand.
“This…”. Your voice failed. You tried again. “Where are we?”.
“Motel”, he said. His eyes did not leave your face. “Outside the city”.
That answered almost nothing.
You licked dry lips and looked at him more carefully. Really looked.
The last time you had seen him properly, he had still been young in a way that made sense. Dangerous maybe, yes. Mean, yes. Already turning into something… cruel. But still recognizably anchored to the world you knew.
This Ben was not that.
The face was the same underneath. The mouth. The brow. The shape of his jaw when he clenched it. But time—however it had touched him—had done it from the inside out. He looked like a man who had been lived through by too much. A man who had survived things badly.
Your eyes dropped to the green pants again. To the ridiculous costume piece in a room that might have existed nowhere in the world you remembered.
Cold crept into you from somewhere deeper than your skin.
“What year is it?”.
Ben went still. You saw the way his shoulders locked and the way his eyes changed. As if this had been the question he had been dreading most.
When he answered, he did not soften it.
“2026”.
You stared at him.
The number meant nothing for a beat. Then too much.
Your hand loosened around the bottle. “No”, you said.
Ben’s jaw tightened. “Yeah”.
“No”.
You shook your head once, then regretted it instantly when the room tipped again. The clock on the nightstand glowed red. 2:08. That horrible little digital brightness alone looked wrong enough to make your chest pull tight.
“That’s not…”. You swallowed. “That’s not funny”.
His face changed at that. Something like pain crossed it fast and was gone.
“I’m not joking”.
You looked at the lamp. The clock. The cut of the curtains. The shape of the phone on the nightstand, plastic and smooth and alien compared to what memory expected. The air itself felt different. Colder in some mechanical way, flatter, less alive than the rooms you remembered.
You pressed your hand harder to your stomach.
Eighty-five years.
The number opened under your feet like a trapdoor.
Your mind reached for smaller things instead. Safer things. The last details it could still trust.
Rain on the kitchen windows.
The tick of the clock above the stove.
His keys on the table.
The newspaper on the floor.
Your breath started coming too fast.
Ben heard it immediately. He pushed out of the chair before you could register the motion, then stopped himself halfway to the bed, hands open at his sides, as if remembering all at once that moving fast toward you was no longer neutral.
“Hey”, he said, lower now. “Breathe”.
You looked at him and wanted to ask ten things at once.
Where had he been.
What had they done to you.
Why were you still twenty-seven.
Why did he look the same and not the same.
Who had dressed you.
Why did the room smell like bleach and old heat.
Why, why, why.
Instead what came out was, “I was dead”.
“No”.
The answer was immediate. Too sharp. Almost angry.
Ben dragged a hand over his mouth and forced his voice back down. “No. They had you under. Frozen”. His mouth twisted around the word, hating it. “Long time”.
Your eyes burned. “Who?”.
“Vought”.
The name sat between you like acid.
You looked away. Of course. Of course it was them. Who else took people and turned them into property with a clean desk and a typed memo?
Your fingers curled into the blanket. “Why?”.
He laughed once through his nose. No humor in it. “For me”.
You turned back to him. He did not look away.
“They kept you as leverage”, he said. “Pressure. In case I ever stepped out of line”.
You looked down at your own hands. Pale against dark fabric. A stranger’s motel light on skin that had not aged. The shirt sleeve hanging over your knuckles, his shirt, because there had been no time or right or choice left in anything.
“For you”, you repeated.
Ben’s throat worked once. “Yeah”.
A hundred feelings moved through you at once, too tangled to separate—shock, fear, grief, humiliation so old it woke up instantly, and somewhere under all of it a raw little thread of anger that had somehow survived even the ice.
You laughed once, softly and without any joy in it. “That sounds about right”.
He flinched.
You had not meant to make him do that. Or maybe you had. You didn’t know. Your whole body felt like it belonged to someone else.
Silence settled.
Ben stayed standing where he was, not near enough to crowd you, not far enough to pretend he wasn’t waiting for every breath.
You looked at the motel door with the chain lock, then the window, then back at him. The movement was instinctive. Measuring exits. Safety. The habit felt new and old at the same time.
Ben noticed. “This place is clean”, he said. “I checked”.
You almost smiled at the phrasing. Almost. It died before it got there.
“Did you kill them?”.
Ben went very still.
You already knew the answer. You had seen the blood on him in the bunker. The bodies. The way he carried violence now like a second skin. Still, some part of you needed to hear whether he would lie.
He didn’t.
“Yes”.
You closed your eyes.
When you opened them, he was still watching you with that unbearable focus.
“They were keeping you in a tank”, he said, voice roughening. “I wasn’t gonna ask nicely”.
No. He wouldn’t have.
That answer should have frightened you more than it did.
Maybe because there was no room left for new kinds of fear yet. Only the old one, sitting between your ribs with his name on it.
You shifted under the blankets and the motion pulled a small, involuntary wince out of you. Ben caught it instantly.
“What hurts?”.
You blinked at him. The question came so fast it sounded as though he had been waiting to ask it for hours.
“Nothing”, you said automatically.
His expression said he didn’t believe you for a second.
“Everything?”, he tried instead, and there was something almost grimly dry in the adjustment, something old-Ben enough to catch you off guard.
A tired, disbelieving breath escaped you.
“Pretty much”.
That did something to his face. Softened wasn’t the word. Wounded maybe. Or maybe just made him look like a man listening to damage he could neither fix nor fight.
He sat back down in the chair slowly. He leaned forward, forearms on his thighs, giving you less height to have to look up at. That seemed deliberate too. You watched him for a while.
“You were waiting for me to wake up”.
Ben looked at the floor for a second before answering. “Yeah”.
“How long?”.
He flicked a glance at the clock. “Couple hours”.
The absurdity of that hit you strangely. The world had moved nearly a century. Vought had stolen your life. You had woken in a motel wearing your estranged husband’s undershirt while he sat shirtless in superhero pants beside the bed like a sentry.
And still some small, intimate truth survived in the middle of all that ruin: he had waited.
You didn’t know what to do with that. Neither did he, by the look of him.
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, lower than before, “You can go back to sleep”.
You almost laughed.
“Ben”, you whispered. “I woke up in 2026”.
His mouth flattened. “Yeah”.
“I don’t think I’m sleeping”.
No answer at first.
Then, almost under his breath, “Fair enough”.
Around three, Ben started talking, because the silence had become its own kind of cruelty.
He gave you the shortest version he knew how to give, which still wasn’t short, because his life after you had been one long chain of violence, bad choices, and men using one another like weapons.
He told you about Countess first. Not gently. Ben had never known how to make ugly truths pretty.
He sat there half-turned in that ugly motel chair, forearms on his knees, looking at the carpet instead of you when he said, “Yeah. I loved her. In my way”.
The words hit low and hard. You kept your face still, but your fingers curled tighter in the blanket.
He must have heard the change in your breathing, because his jaw tightened. For a second you thought he might take it back, soften it, say something to save you from the shape of it.
He didn’t.
“She wasn’t you”, he said after a beat, rougher now. “Never was”.
That should not have helped.
It did and didn’t, both at once.
Then came the rest. His team. The betrayal. Countess turning on him with the others. The Russians taking him. Decades in a lab, drugged and buried and cut open and studied. He told it flatly, like if he stripped the feeling out of it first, maybe neither of you would have to touch it.
You listened with your arms around yourself. Every now and then you asked a question, and every answer only seemed to make the world wider and colder.
Then Butcher. His guys. Homelander. Vought changing shape over the years without changing its soul. Companies swallowing countries. Supes becoming celebrities and products and idols and nightmares all at once. The world getting louder, faster, filthier, greedier. Men in suits still running everything, just with better technology and whiter teeth.
You sat there trying to imagine all of it and couldn’t.
Television everywhere.
Phones without cords.
Cars that barely made noise.
People living half their lives inside screens.
And then, for some ungodly reason, Ben spent far too long explaining porn.
At first you thought you had misheard him.
Then you realized, with growing horror, that no, he was seriously trying to explain the scale of modern depravity through the existence of instant filth on demand, as if that were somehow one of the key pillars of civilization you needed updated on.
“Ben”, you said at last, appalled, while he sat there shirtless in his green suit pants talking in the calmest voice imaginable about how “there’s whole websites for every weird thing a person can think of”.
“What?”, he said, actually looking offended. “It’s relevant”.
“It is not relevant”.
“It tells you a lot about the culture”.
“It tells me people need church”.
That shut him up for half a second.
Then one corner of his mouth twitched.
You saw it and hated that part of you still recognized that almost-smile.
“This is funny to you?”, you asked.
“A little”.
“Benjamin”.
That made the smile vanish properly, because you only used his full name when you were genuinely scandalized, and apparently even after eighty-five years that still worked on him.
You straightened under the blankets as much as your weak body would allow and gave him, in your raw half-frozen voice in a cheap motel room in 2026, a tired, sincere lesson about morality, modesty, Christian decency and the collapse of civilization.
Ben sat there and took it.
Mostly because he looked too tired to fight.
Partly, maybe, because hearing you sound like yourself again, even lecturing him, did something to his face he could not hide fast enough.
When you were done, he rubbed a hand over his mouth and muttered, “You wake up after eighty-five years and your first real opinion is that everybody needs Jesus”.
“Yes”, you said. “Obviously”.
That got a breath of laughter out of him. Quiet. Brief. Gone almost immediately.
From here, Ben should have let it go there.
He should have taken the small, strange mercy of that moment. Your outrage, his almost-laugh, the fact that for half a second the room had felt less like a grave dug up and more like two people who once knew how to talk.
But Ben was still Ben.
Which meant the second the air got almost manageable, he ruined it.
He leaned back in the chair, scrubbed a hand over his jaw, and said, with the kind of false casualness that was never a good sign, “You should probably hear about Herogasm from me too”.
You blinked. “What”.
His eyes flicked to you, then away. “It’s… a thing”.
“A thing”, you repeated.
“Yeah”.
The way he said it made your stomach drop before you even understood why.
You stared at him. “Benjamin”.
That full name again. Sharper this time.
He shifted in the chair, suddenly looking like he knew he’d stepped wrong and had decided, in typical fashion, to keep walking anyway. “Look, I’m telling you now because if you find out some other way later, it’ll be worse”.
You sat up straighter despite the ache in your body. “Find out what”.
Ben exhaled through his nose.
“It’s this yearly—”. He made a vague motion with one hand. “Supes-only event. Vought pretends it doesn’t know about it. Everybody knows about it”.
You kept staring.
His mouth flattened. “Basically a giant degenerate free-for-all”.
Your mouth fell open.
For one full second, you could not even form words.
“A what?”.
That won you the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth, which only made your horror worse.
“A giant degenerate free-for-all”, he repeated, less flippant this time, as if he knew very well how it sounded and had accepted that there was no better version.
You looked around wildly as though the motel room itself might confirm you had finally lost your mind. Then your eyes snapped back to him.
“And you”, you said, each word distinct with disbelief, “were involved”.
Ben had the nerve to look almost rueful.
“I kind of started it”.
You made a sound so scandalized it barely qualified as language.
Then you grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at him.
Not hard. You were too weak for hard. But with all the outrage and heartbreak your body could muster at four in the morning in a motel in 2026.
The pillow hit him square in the face.
Ben caught it a beat too late and let it fall into his lap.
For one stunned second, he looked at you over the top of it like he couldn’t quite believe you’d done that.
Then, because he was exhausted and half-broken and still somehow capable of being amused at exactly the wrong moment, he let out a quiet huff of laughter.
You pointed at him from under the blankets, appalled. “Do not laugh”.
“I’m not laughing”.
“You are”.
“A little”.
“Ben”.
That cut it off again. He dropped the pillow to the floor and held up both hands in surrender, though there was still a trace of something almost warm in his face. “All right. All right”.
You stared at him in open horror.
“A yearly—”, you broke off, unable to even repeat it properly. “With other people”.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah”.
Your cheeks felt hot now, which was ridiculous after everything. After tanks and bunkers and eighty-five years and blood and Vought and the end of the world as you knew it. And yet this—this obscene, careless, public filth attached to the man you had married in a church while wearing white gloves and trembling because you loved him so much—this was somehow what undid the last of your composure.
“You are disgusting”, you whispered.
Ben took that one. Didn’t argue. Didn’t posture.
Just sat there in the chair, shirtless, looking more tired than offended.
“It was a long time ago”, he said after a beat.
“That is not helping”.
“I know”.
“And you thought I needed to know this now?”.
“Yes”.
“Why?”.
He looked at you then and whatever joking edge had been there faded.
“Because if you hear it from someone else, it’ll sound worse”.
You gave him a stricken, incredulous look. “How could it possibly sound worse.”
His mouth opened. Closed. To his credit, he did not try to answer that.
The silence that followed trembled with the remains of your outrage. Your heart was beating too fast again, but for a different reason now—less fear than a kind of mortified heartbreak, the shame of imagining too much and wishing you could imagine none of it.
Because beneath the scandal, beneath the appalled moral horror, there was something much simpler and more painful.
He was your husband.
He had been your only man. The only body you had ever made room for in your life. The only one you had ever known like that.
And now here he was, matter-of-factly admitting to entire arenas of dirt and excess and other people and acts so vulgar your mind kept swerving away from them before they fully formed.
Your eyes stung.
You looked down at the blanket before he could see it, but too late. One tear slipped free and landed dark on the fabric pooled over your knees.
Ben went still. All the humor dropped out of him at once.
“Ah, hell”, he said quietly.
You wiped at your face angrily.
“I didn’t mean—”.
“You never mean”, you said and your voice broke halfway through.
That shut him up.
You pressed the heel of your hand to your mouth, furious with yourself now. Furious that after everything he had already told you, this was what pushed tears out. Furious that your body still kept finding new ways to humiliate you in front of him.
But it wasn’t just Herogasm. It was Countess. It was the years. It was his body becoming public in every possible way while yours had been locked underground and forgotten. It was the obscene scale of all the lives he had lived without you. The filth of it only made the distance easier to picture.
Ben leaned forward in the chair, elbows on his knees again, hands hanging between them. He looked stricken in that angry, helpless way of his, like if there had been someone else in the room to hit, he’d have preferred that to watching you cry.
“I was trying to tell you straight”, he said.
You laughed once through the tears, a soft miserable sound. “And that worked out beautifully”.
His eyes shut for half a second.
“No”, he muttered. “Guess not”.
You kept your face turned down, breathing carefully, trying to stop the tears before they became more than a few. The blanket bunched under your fists.
After a moment, Ben said, lower now, “It didn’t mean anything”.
There were so many things wrong with that sentence you almost laughed again.
Instead you looked up at him with wet eyes and said, “That might be the saddest part”.
You sat there for a long time without speaking.
The tears had mostly stopped, but your face still felt tight with them. Your throat ached. The room had gone dimmer in a way that only happened toward morning, when the lamp seemed too yellow and the window too pale and everything looked exhausted with you.
Ben watched you from the chair.
He was bad at silence on a good day. Silence left too much room for things he didn’t want to sit with. Guilt. Shame. Memory. The sight of you in his shirt with your eyes red from crying because of him.
So, after a few minutes of the kind of quiet that made the whole room feel held underwater, he tried again.
Not with anything important. That was how you knew he was trying.
He started telling you stupid little things about the new world. Not the big terrible ones this time. The ridiculous ones. The things that seemed to offend him personally on principle.
He told you about self-checkout machines that made customers do the cashier’s job for free.
About electric scooters left all over sidewalks “like some kind of plague”.
About men in suits paying nine dollars for coffee and thanking the barista like they’d just been handed medicine.
About something called “influencers” and the look on your face at that word alone was so baffled that one corner of his mouth twitched before he could stop it.
“They just… influence what?”, you asked weakly.
“Everything, apparently”.
“That is not a job”.
“No”, he said. “It is not”.
Then he told you about juice cleanses and gender reveal explosions and people filming themselves crying on the internet for strangers, and for the first time all night a sound escaped you that wasn’t pain.
A small, startled chuckle. It slipped out while your cheeks were still damp.
The noise seemed to hit him almost as hard as your tears had. His face changed around it. Not into a smile exactly. Something quieter. More careful. As if hearing you sound like yourself, even in that tiny way, made him afraid to move too fast and lose it.
“There she is”, he murmured.
You wiped under one eye with the heel of your hand and gave him a tired look. “This world sounds ridiculous”.
“It is”.
“And immoral”.
“That too”.
“And badly dressed”.
That got a real laugh out of him. Low and brief and gone quickly, but real.
“Yeah”, he said. “You’re gonna hate half of it on sight”.
“Only half?”.
“Maybe seventy percent”.
You gave a weak, watery breath that was almost another laugh.
The room loosened by one thread.
Not fixed, but loosened.
Ben shifted forward a little in the chair, elbows on his knees. The lamplight caught the line of one scar down his shoulder. He looked, suddenly, less like a myth and more like a very tired man trying and failing not to scare the one person he most wanted near him.
His hand lifted. Slowly.
You saw what he meant to do before he did it. Just brush your arm, maybe, or smooth the blanket where it had bunched near your elbow. Your body flinched back anyway. Small. Quick. Pure reflex.
Ben froze and his hand stopped in midair. Then dropped.
The look that crossed his face was so nakedly guilty it made something twist in your chest.
He looked down at his own hand like it belonged to someone else.
Then, very quietly, “I’m in control now”.
You didn’t answer right away.
His voice roughened. “I am”.
Ben swallowed once and kept his eyes on the floor.
“I know that doesn’t mean much coming from me”, he said. “But it’s true”. A beat passed. “I spent years in Russia with every goddamn thing in me chained down and measured. Then more years after trying not to level a room every time I got pissed”. His mouth tightened. “I know my own strength now”.
You watched him.
He finally looked up.
“I would never hurt you by accident again”.
The sentence sat between you, heavy and imperfect. Not because you didn’t believe he meant it. Because “by accident” still left too many other kinds of hurt in the room.
Maybe he knew that. Maybe that was why he looked away first.
Your voice came soft. “That wasn’t the only problem, Ben”.
His jaw flexed. “I know”.
And there was too much history in those two words to press any farther right then.
So you didn’t. Instead you asked other things. Smaller things.
What music sounded like now. Why everyone’s clothes looked so cheap in the brochures he found in the motel drawer. Why women wore running shoes with dresses. What a microwave was. Why cars all looked rounded.
Ben answered as best he could.
Sometimes badly.
Sometimes with surprising patience.
Sometimes with that old dry streak of humor that had once caught you off guard in kitchens and backyards and school corridors before life had filed all its edges into weapons.
By the time the clock dragged toward six, your body had started losing the fight.
The adrenaline had burned off. The shock had settled deeper. Every muscle in you felt borrowed and sore. Your eyelids turned heavy between one blink and the next. The room kept going a little soft at the edges no matter how hard you tried to keep your thoughts lined up.
Ben saw it before you said anything.
“You’re done”, he said.
You frowned faintly. “I’m awake”.
“Barely”.
“I am”.
He gave you a look. Not mean. Not even amused, exactly. Just familiar in a way that hurt.
“You look like you’re about to fall over sitting still”.
You wanted to argue. Instead you yawned.
That made one side of his mouth twitch despite everything.
“Yeah”, he muttered. “Thought so”.
He stood then, slowly enough not to startle you, and crossed to the lamp.
“Don’t”, you said, more quickly than you meant to.
His hand paused over the switch.
You looked toward the window, where the first weak gray of dawn was beginning to thin the dark. “Not all the way”.
Ben glanced back at you and seemed to understand.
The lamp stayed on, just dimmed lower.
Then came the awkward part. The room had one bed.
You looked at the chair. At him. At the bed. Your tired brain could not quite make those pieces into a shape that felt sensible.
Ben solved it the way he solved most things: by making a decision and standing still inside it.
“I’m not sleeping in that chair”, he said.
The bluntness of it would have annoyed you in any other life.
Now you only looked at him through the fog of exhaustion.
“I wasn’t asking you to”.
He studied your face for a second, like he was checking whether that was true or just politeness shaped like surrender. Maybe it was both. You were too tired to sort it out.
He came to the bed carefully, pulling the blanket aside on the far edge and lying down over the comforter first, not under it, as if to prove he wasn’t assuming anything. The mattress dipped with his weight. Your body noticed immediately. Tensed a little. Then, because you had nothing left in you for another flinch, slowly let go.
He kept his distance. An honest distance. A strip of mattress between you. One arm folded under his head, the other lying still on top of the blanket where you could see it.
You didn’t complain.
Part of that was exhaustion. Part of it was that your thoughts had gone too loose and strange to fight anything except sleep by now.
And part of it—though you hated admitting it, even to yourself—was older than all of this. Older than Vought and tanks and neon motel signs and digital clocks. Old training in your bones. A wife did not make a scene over a bed. A wife did not tell her husband no just because the world had ended and remade itself around them. Not when she was raised in the years you were. Not when love and obedience and habit had been braided together so early you could no longer always tell where one stopped and the next began.
Ben must have sensed some of that in the silence, because after a long beat he said into the dim room, “If you want me out of the bed, say it”.
You turned your head on the pillow and looked at him.
The offer sounded almost painful coming from him. Like it had cost him.
You were too tired to unpack that too.
“I don’t”, you murmured.
It wasn’t the whole truth. It wasn’t a lie either.
He nodded once, eyes on the ceiling.
“All right”.
———————————
A/N: Didn’t plan on posting it this soon, but… well, here we go because Lila can’t wait. Like always. The next one will probably be up in a week.
Also, just so you know, I had this one finished before season 5 aired 🙃 I wrote it after that teaser of Ben in Homelander’s suite came out. Kinda funny considering all the church and Jesus stuff… well, you’ll see in the following chapters 😭
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.
summary: You and Joe have been best friends since birth. Things happened that caused you to drift. When you found out something all you wanted was him. But Joe wasn't there, not fully.
warnings: teen pregnancy
chapter 2
Y/N POV
The first time Aurora understood football, she cried because the Bengals lost.
She was three years old, sitting crisscrossed on my couch in tiny striped pajamas with goldfish crackers spilled across her lap while tears streamed dramatically down her cheeks.
“But Mommy,” she hiccuped, “they’re my team.”
I stared at her for half a second before laughing so hard I nearly dropped my coffee.
Because somehow my daughter had inherited the emotional instability of a lifelong football fan before she could even spell Cincinnati.
Now at four years old, football basically ran her life.
She knew touchdown celebrations. Recognized team logos. Called every quarterback “the throw guy.” And she treated Bengals game days like national holidays.
Which honestly made sense considering she’d practically grown up inside the organization.
“Mommy!”
Tiny footsteps raced across our apartment the next morning before Aurora appeared in the doorway holding a cereal bowl with a deeply offended expression.
“My breakfast tastes wrong.”
I looked up from my laptop slowly. “What did you put in it?”
“Milk.”
“That’s usually how cereal works.”
Aurora frowned harder. “Orange milk.”
I blinked.
Then immediately started laughing.
“You used orange juice.”
“Oh.”
She looked genuinely devastated by this realization.
I held out my arms, still laughing softly as she climbed into my lap with a dramatic sigh.
“Life is very hard,” she informed me seriously.
“It really is.”
Aurora rested her head against my chest while I fixed her cereal situation from the couch, one arm wrapped around her automatically.
Mornings like this were my favorite. Quiet. Warm. Normal.
Five years ago, I genuinely thought my life was over.
Now I had this tiny human who stole my hoodies, loved football more than cartoons, and told random grocery store cashiers that her mom worked “for the Bengals like a celebrity.”
I was happy. Truly happy. Not every second, not perfectly, but real happiness. I loved my job, loved Cincinnati, loved the life I built for us from absolutely nothing.
Still there were nights where missing Joe Burrow felt like surviving an old injury. Not sharp anymore. Just permanent.
Aurora suddenly pointed at my laptop screen.
“Who’s that?”
My stomach tightened instantly.
Joe.
Of course.
His face filled the screen underneath giant gold letters announcing the Heisman ceremony later that night.
The entire country had become obsessed with him over the last year. LSU quarterback. Transfer success story. Future first overall pick.
Every sports account posted him constantly.
Sometimes it still startled me how the boy from Athens became this.
How someone who used to sit in my driveway eating fries at midnight somehow turned into the biggest name in college football.
“That,” I said carefully, “is an old friend.”
Aurora tilted her head.
“He looks famous.”
I laughed quietly. “That’s because he is.”
She squinted thoughtfully at the screen.
“He’s pretty.”
I nearly choked on my coffee.
“Aurora Grace.”
“What?”
“You can’t just call people pretty randomly.”
“Yes I can.”
Honestly?
Fair point.
She looked back at the screen again.
“He kinda looks like a blonde Flynn Rider.”
I burst out laughing so hard I had tears in my eyes.
God.
Joe would’ve loved her.
The thought hit hard enough to suck the air out of the room because that was the thing about grief nobody talked about.
Sometimes it wasn’t dramatic.
Sometimes it was just realizing exactly how much someone would’ve loved the life you built without them.
Aurora would’ve adored Joe.
And Joe would’ve adored her too.
I knew it in the deepest part of myself. Which almost made it worse.
My phone buzzed beside me, dragging me out of the spiral.
Zac Taylor.
A smile immediately pulled at my mouth as I answered.
“Morning, coach.”
“You know,” Zac sighed, “one of these days I’m gonna convince you to stop calling me that off the clock.”
“Not happening.”
“Disrespectful.”
I grinned, balancing the phone between my shoulder and ear while Aurora attempted to steal marshmallows from the cereal box.
Working for the Bengals had started as an internship after college.
Just temporary.
Just something to help me survive while raising a baby completely on my own.
Then somehow temporary became permanent.
And somewhere along the way, the Bengals organization became home.
Especially Zac.
He had this weird ability to notice things before I said them out loud.
Like when I skipped lunch too many days in a row or looked exhausted or pretended I was fine when I absolutely wasn’t.
He never pushed too hard. Just showed up quietly.
“You coming in early today?” he asked.
“Unfortunately.”
“Language.”
“I have a four-year-old. Everything is unfortunate before ten a.m.”
Aurora gasped dramatically beside me.
“I heard that!”
“You were supposed to.”
Zac laughed loudly through the phone.
“How’s my favorite tiny employee?”
Aurora immediately grabbed the phone from my hand.
“Zac!”
“There she is.”
“I learned cover three yesterday.”
My eyebrows shot up. “You learned what?”
Aurora shrugged proudly.
“One of the defense guys taught me.”
I pressed my fingers against my forehead.
“You absolutely cannot let defensive coordinators educate my child.”
“She’s a football genius,” Zac defended.
“She’s four.”
“She’s advanced.”
Aurora nodded seriously. “Advanced.”
I snorted.
Honestly, the entire organization spoiled her rotten, equipment staff gave her mini footballs constantly, players carried her around the facility like a mascot, security let her color at the front desk.
She belonged there almost as naturally as I did now and after spending years terrified of doing motherhood alone, having that support changed everything.
“You still bringing her by later?” Zac asked.
“Yeah. My mom has her tonight but I’ve gotta stop by the office first.”
“Good. The social team’s been asking where their boss went.”
“I was gone for one day.”
“Chaos erupted.”
I smiled, leaning back against the couch while Aurora played with the strings on my hoodie. For a second everything felt peaceful again.
Then the Heisman promo flashed across the television.
Joe’s face appeared again. Sharp jaw. Focused eyes. That stupid familiar half-smile.
Older now. More polished. But still undeniably Joe. My chest tightened automatically.
“Y/N.”
Zac’s voice softened slightly.
“You okay?”
I hated that question. Mostly because the people who loved me always asked it at exactly the wrong moments.
“Yeah,” I lied.
“That sounded fake.”
Aurora suddenly climbed higher into my lap and whispered loudly into the phone, “Mommy gets sad sometimes.”
My eyes widened. “Traitor.”
“She tells secrets,” Aurora informed Zac proudly.
“I’m aware.”
I groaned while Zac laughed again. Then his tone shifted slightly.
More casual. Too casual.
“You know what’s crazy?”
“What?”
“We’re probably drafting him.”
My entire body went still. The words slammed into me so hard it physically hurt.
I stared blankly at the TV screen while the room suddenly felt too small. Too warm. Too loud.
“We’ve been talking through scenarios all week,” Zac continued, completely unaware he’d just shattered my nervous system. “Unless something insane happens, Burrow’s probably our guy.”
Burrow. Not Joe. Not the boy who knew every version of me.
Just Burrow. Quarterback. Asset. Future franchise player.
Except my stupid heart didn’t hear it that way.
All it heard was, Joe’s coming here, Joe’s coming back into your life, my grip tightened painfully around my phone.
Five years.
Five entire years since I’d really seen him.
Five years since graduation.
Five years since the missed calls and unanswered texts slowly turned into silence.
“Y/N?”
I blinked hard.
“Sorry. I’m here.”
“You alright?”
“Yeah.”
Lie.
Lie.
Lie.
Aurora looked up at me carefully now. Kids noticed everything. Especially my daughter.
“You look weird,” she announced.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I barely heard Zac talking anymore because suddenly memories were crashing into me too fast. Joe teaching me how to drive, Joe falling asleep on my shoulder during movie nights, Joe screaming when LSU beat Alabama, Joe’s voicemail after Aurora was born that I listened to exactly once before deleting because hearing his voice hurt too badly.
I swallowed hard.
Because that was the thing nobody knew. I never stopped reaching for him. Even after he stopped reaching back. Without really thinking about it, I opened our old message thread and immediately regretted it.
Happy birthday :)
Delivered.
Hope camp is going good.
Delivered.
Saw your game today. Proud of you always.
Delivered.
Congratulations on the SEC championship!!
Delivered.
Merry Christmas Joe
Delivered.
The messages physically ached to look at. A timeline of someone trying desperately not to lose another person they loved.
Then finally:
Congrats on the Heisman. Knew you’d do it. Always do.
Delivered.
Not read.
I stared at it too long. Because maybe this was the part that hurt most, Joe had once known me better than anyone on earth. Now I didn’t even know if he’d recognize the sound of my voice anymore.
“Mommy?”
Aurora’s tiny hand rested against my cheek gently. I looked down at her.
“You okay?”
God. I smiled softly despite the ache in my chest.
“Yeah, baby.”
She studied me for another second before climbing fully into my lap and wrapping her little arms around my neck.
“You need a hug.”
My throat tightened immediately.
“Yeah,” I whispered, pulling her closer. “I think I do.”
Aurora squeezed harder and somewhere across the country, Joe Burrow smiled for cameras while holding a Heisman trophy.
Completely unaware that in a tiny apartment in Cincinnati, the girl he used to love was staring at unanswered messages wondering what she was supposed to do when he walked back into her life.
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?”
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