They’re at a red carpet event and they start chatting it up with other teen actors , and she starts talking to a guy and he’s like “I don’t do Handshakes I do hugs” and Malachi’s like “handshake, handshakes” just thinking to himself like ain’t nobody hugging my girl, idk just something like that
His space
Malachi Barton x Fem!reader
Summary:At a red carpet event with Malachi, another actor tries to hug you while he’s briefly away. Malachi immediately steps in, stops it, and stays close to you for the rest of the night.
Content:mild jealousy/protective behavior, public/social discomfort, and brief awkward interaction.
W/C:1.6K
TO REQUEST: rules and who i write for
The car slows as it approaches the barricades, and the noise builds before you even fully stop—layers of sound stacking on top of each other until it’s impossible to separate one voice from another. It’s shouting and laughter and camera shutters snapping so fast they blur into something constant, something almost physical. You can feel it in your chest before you even step out.
Beside you, Malachi shifts, leaning forward slightly to glance through the window, then back at you. His expression softens just a little when he sees your face, like he already knows what you’re feeling without you having to say it.
“You good?” he asks, voice low enough that it cuts cleanly through everything else.
You take a breath, steadying yourself. “Yeah. This is just… a lot.”
He nods once, like that makes perfect sense. “It is.” His hand moves without hesitation, finding yours and holding it, not tightly, just enough to ground you. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to tonight. If you don’t feel like talking to someone, don’t. If you want to step away, we step away. Okay?”
You look at him, really look at him, and there’s no performance there, no red carpet version of himself. Just him.
“Okay,” you say, softer now.
He gives your hand a small squeeze. “Stay with me, though.”
You smile, a little more relaxed. “I always do.”
That seems to settle something in him, even if he doesn’t say it out loud. He leans back just as the car finally comes to a full stop, the door already being opened from the outside.
And then everything hits at once.
The door swings open and the sound floods in. Voices calling his name, flashes going off in rapid bursts, people moving everywhere at once. It’s overwhelming for half a second, maybe more, but Malachi doesn’t hesitate. He steps out first, then immediately turns back toward you, hand already extended.
You take it without thinking, stepping out into the chaos beside him, and the flashes intensify instantly.
“Malachi! Over here!”
“Look this way!”
“Both of you—right here!”
He leans slightly toward you as you start moving forward, his voice just for you. “Don’t try to look at all of them. Pick one camera, then the next. You’ll go crazy otherwise.”
You let out a small breath, nodding. “Got it.”
His thumb brushes over your hand once, absentminded but reassuring. “I’m right here.”
And he is. Completely.
You move down the carpet together, guided by handlers and photographers calling for your attention. It becomes a rhythm faster than you expect. Step forward, stop, turn slightly, smile, shift, repeat. Malachi adjusts without even thinking, angling himself just enough to include you in every frame, his hand settling naturally at your waist whenever the cameras ask for the two of you together.
It’s subtle, but constant. A quiet reminder: you’re not doing this alone.
At one point, a photographer waves him over more insistently. “Malachi, solo shots real quick!”
He turns his head immediately to you.
“I’ll be right here,” you tell him before he can even ask.
“You sure?”
“Yes,” you say, laughing a little. “Go.”
He hesitates anyway, eyes scanning your face like he’s double-checking, then nods. “Don’t go far.”
“I won’t.”
He steps away, but not far at all, just enough to give the cameras what they want. You can still see him clearly, hear his voice as someone starts asking him questions. He answers easily, relaxed, slipping into that version of himself that handles interviews like second nature.
You shift slightly to the side, giving him space but staying close enough that you’re still within his line of sight if he looks over. Around you, the carpet feels different here, less structured, more fluid. Other teen actors are talking, laughing, greeting each other like they haven’t seen each other in months.
It starts to feel a little more normal.
You’re watching someone you vaguely recognize walk past when a voice breaks in beside you.
“Hey.”
You turn, and there’s a guy standing there, another actor, probably around your age, dressed just as sharp, confidence practically built into the way he carries himself.
“I don’t think we’ve met,” he says, smiling easily.
You return the smile, polite but not overly familiar. “I don’t think so either.”
He introduces himself, then instinctively starts to stick his hand out before pausing halfway and pulling it back with a small laugh. “Actually-nah, I don’t do handshakes. I do hugs.”
It’s casual, like it’s a line he’s used before, like he expects it to land smoothly.
For a second, you just blink, thrown off by the switch. “Oh-uh-”
You’re not uncomfortable exactly, but it’s unexpected, and your body language gives you away just enough. You hesitate instead of stepping forward, your shoulders tightening slightly as he opens his arms like it’s already decided.
Across the carpet, Malachi doesn’t hear every word, but he hears enough.
“I don’t do handshakes.”
That part carries.
His head turns immediately, attention snapping away from whatever question he was answering. He sees you, sees the guy, sees the open arms, sees the pause.
And that’s all it takes.
The interviewer is still talking, but Malachi’s already halfway gone mentally.
“-and yeah, it’s been really great working with everyone and…yeah,” he finishes quickly, the sentence barely holding together. “Sorry, one sec.”
He doesn’t wait. He just moves.
It’s not obvious enough to make a scene, but there’s a clear shift in his energy—focused, direct, like there’s only one place he needs to be.
Back where you’re standing, the guy is still waiting, arms slightly open, smile still there, expecting you to meet him halfway.
You’re just about to say something to redirect it-
“Hey, man.”
Malachi’s voice slides into the space before anything else can happen. He steps right between you and the guy without hesitation, like it’s instinct, like there was never another option.
His hand comes up immediately, firm and steady.
“Handshake.”
The word lands simple and clear.
Not aggressive. Not loud.
Just… final.
The other actor pauses, clearly not expecting that, then lets out a small, awkward laugh as he adjusts. “Oh! Yeah, sure.” He drops his arms and takes the handshake instead.
Malachi’s grip is solid, brief. “Good to meet you.”
“You too,” the guy says, glancing between the two of you, picking up on something unspoken. After a beat, he nods once and moves on, blending back into the crowd without pushing it further.
The moment passes, but it leaves something behind, something quieter.
You turn your head slowly to look at Malachi.
He’s already looking at you.
“What?” he says, like he doesn’t see anything unusual about what just happened.
“You just left an interview,” you say.
“It was done.”
“It wasn’t done.”
“It was basically done.”
You stare at him for a second, then shake your head slightly, a smile threatening to break through. “You literally cut yourself off mid answer.”
He exhales, running a hand through his hair briefly. “Okay, maybe I did.”
“Maybe?”
He doesn’t answer that part. Instead, his expression shifts just a little more serious as he looks at you. “I didn’t like that.”
“The hug?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he says immediately. “I don’t know him.”
You cross your arms loosely, tilting your head. “So?”
“So,” he repeats, then gestures slightly toward where the guy disappeared into the crowd. “You didn’t move.”
You blink. “What?”
“You hesitated,” he says, like it’s obvious. “You always go with it when you’re comfortable. You didn’t that time.”
You didn’t even realize he noticed that.
“I was just surprised,” you say after a second.
“I know,” he replies, softer now. “That’s what I mean.”
There’s a brief pause where the noise of the carpet fills the space between you, but it doesn’t feel as loud anymore.
“I just…” he starts, then stops, like he’s trying to phrase it right. “I’m right here. You don’t have to deal with stuff like that if you don’t want to.”
The way he says it isn’t controlling. It’s not about making decisions for you.
It’s just… certainty. Presence.
You feel your expression soften without meaning to. “You could’ve let me handle it.”
“I could’ve,” he admits. “I didn’t want to.”
That pulls a quiet laugh out of you. “You’re actually ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” he says, a small grin finally showing up again. “But he didn’t hug you, so…”
You shake your head, but you step a little closer to him anyway. “You really just said ‘handshake’ like it was a rule.”
“It is a rule,” he says immediately.
“For who?”
“For him,” he answers without missing a beat.
You laugh again, more fully this time, the tension completely gone. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet,” he says, voice dropping just slightly as he reaches for your hand again, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, “you’re still right here.”
Your fingers lace with his easily. “Yeah. I am.”
Another wave of voices calls his name, photographers trying to get his attention again, and he glances over before looking back at you.
“Come on,” he says, giving your hand a small tug. “Before someone else decides they don’t do handshakes.”
You roll your eyes, but you let him pull you along, falling back into step beside him as you move further down the carpet together.
This time, his hand doesn’t leave yours.
Not when the cameras flash.
Not when people call his name.
Not even when he gets stopped again, his grip loosening just enough to answer a question but never fully letting go, like he’s making a point without saying it out loud.
And every so often, between the noise and the lights and everything else, he glances over at you. Not checking, not worried. Just making sure.
Hi love, would you be able to do one where Malachi and the reader are dating and she wants to buy a new car, preferably a bmw. Since we all know Malachi has a bmw and he’s obessed with that car and he’s knows a lot about cars and stuff but one day he overhears the reader asking MK for help on what kind of bmw car she should buy, because she has no knowledge on cars and stuff , and he gets likes shuts down and gets sad . Like fluff and he doesn’t know why she wouldn’t ask him for help seeing as he has a BMW and he’s knows a lot about cars and is obsessed with them.
His Favorite thing
Malachi Barton x Reader
Summary: When the reader starts looking for a BMW and asks MK for help, Malachi overhears and feels hurt that she didn’t come to him, especially since cars are his biggest passion. When they finally talk about it, the misunderstanding turns into a soft, emotional moment between them.
Content: Fluff, misunderstanding, hurt/comfort, light angst, established relationship, comfort ending.
WC: 1.4K
TO REQUEST: rules and who i write for
The sun slanted low over the driveway, casting long streaks of golden light across the living room floor. You were sprawled across the couch, phone in hand, scrolling through BMW listings for what felt like the hundredth time. Each car looked shinier, sleeker, perfect in a way that made your chest flutter. You wanted one that felt like you, but the more you looked, the more your brain scrambled. Engine specs, trims, horsepower. It was all a blur. Your heart raced as you tapped between models, imagining the car in your life, imagining the smooth hum of the engine, the way the leather would feel beneath your hands. But you had no idea what you were doing.
Normally, you would have asked Malachi first.
Malachi Barton. Obsessed with BMWs. Living, breathing, sleeping BMWs. His car was practically sacred, polished until it gleamed, with an engine he could talk about for hours. You had watched him on countless weekends, pointing out every little detail. The stitching of the leather, the subtle differences between the M3 and the 330i, the hum of the engine when it was just right. And you had always loved it. You had always loved him in those moments, the way his eyes lit up with that obsessive joy, the way he could talk endlessly about the one thing he adored.
But today… you hadn’t asked him.
Instead, MK had come over. Calm, patient, easygoing, the perfect person to talk to when you felt completely overwhelmed. He wasn’t a car guy, but he was fun to talk to, and he didn’t make you feel like a fool. You thought it would be simpler, safer, easier.
“Okay… so if you had to pick one, which one would you go for?” you asked, scrolling nervously through the photos.
MK leaned back, squinting. “Uh… maybe that one?”
You groaned and pressed your forehead to your hand. “MK, I can’t even tell what I’m looking at! They all look amazing, but I don’t know which one I should pick!”
“Sporty’s good, right?” he shrugged, pointing at a bright red coupe. “That one looks sporty.”
“I don’t even know what sporty means!” you laughed nervously, your hand running through your hair.
And that’s when Malachi walked down the hallway.
He caught the word that made his chest constrict: BMW.
Then came the rest: “…so which one should I get?”
MK?
You were asking MK instead of him. Not Malachi—the man who could recite every BMW trim, engine type, and horsepower rating in his sleep. The man who had polished his car obsessively, who knew every hum of the engine, every curve, every interior feature. You were asking someone else.
Malachi froze. His chest tightened, a hollow ache spreading through him. He didn’t feel anger at least not yet, but confusion, hurt, and exclusion pressed in like a physical weight.
She didn’t ask me?
He pressed his hands against the wall, jaw tight. He had always wanted to share this part of his life with you, to see your eyes light up as he explained engines, trims, interiors. To take you for a ride and let you feel the hum of the engine beneath you. And now… you had gone to MK.
Without thinking, he walked outside, resting against the hood of his BMW. Normally, it made him feel alive, proud, untouchable. Now, it only emphasized the hollow ache in his chest. He ran a hand over the curves of the hood, thinking of every detail he loved and all the times he had wanted you to share in it.
——
Inside, you and MK continued scrolling.
“Maybe this one?” he asked, pointing at a red coupe.
“I… I don’t know,” you admitted. “Maybe sporty. Or bigger… I just… I don’t know what I want.”
Malachi’s chest tightened further. He stayed leaning against the hood, listening. He imagined taking you to a dealership, letting you sit in every model, explaining trims and interiors, showing you subtleties only he could notice. And now… you had gone to someone else.
He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. Why didn’t she ask me?
You glanced out the window and saw him, arms crossed, jaw tight, posture rigid. Your stomach twisted at the sight.
“Malachi?” you said softly, stepping outside.
He looked at you, eyes distant. “Oh… hey.”
“…I heard you,” he said quietly, gaze fixed on the driveway.
“Uh… heard me?”
“You were asking MK about BMWs,” he admitted, voice low and fragile. “…Instead of me.”
The words landed like stones. Seeing him hurt like this, tense and distant, made your chest ache.
“I didn’t know which one to pick,” you whispered. “I thought maybe-maybe MK could help me figure it out.”
Malachi’s jaw tightened. “…You know how much I know about BMWs. You know how much I care. And you didn’t even think to ask me.”
Tears pricked your eyes. You stepped closer, brushing your hand lightly against his arm. “…I know,” you whispered. “I’m sorry. I should have asked you first.”
Malachi stayed quiet for a long moment, leaning against the hood, letting the words settle. His shoulders remained tense, his hands fidgeting along the polished surface. Every second stretched.
“I just wish you had asked me,” he admitted finally, voice quieter, almost breaking. “I would’ve loved to help you. I wanted to see you in one. I wanted to tell you which one fits you best. I… I wanted to share that with you.”
Tears threatened to spill from your eyes. You stepped closer, pressing your hand against his chest. “…I know,” you said softly. “I went about it wrong. I wasn’t thinking. But I want to figure it out, with you.”
His shoulders finally began to relax. “…Good,” he said, voice warmer now. “Because no one else is helping you pick your BMW. We’re doing this together.”
And just like that, the spark returned. His eyes lit up, and he began launching into an animated lecture about trims, engines, interiors, and performance stats. You leaned against him, laughing softly as he gestured wildly, eyes bright, passion pouring out. You didn’t need to understand every word, you just needed to see him like this.
——
Hours passed, the sun dipping lower, painting the driveway gold. Eventually, he grabbed your hand and tugged you toward the car.
“Come on,” he said, grinning. “We’re taking a little field trip.”
“What field trip?” you asked, puzzled.
“To the dealership. I’m showing you what real BMW magic feels like.”
You groaned, but he only laughed, pulling you into the passenger seat of his car. The leather smelled like his obsessive care, warm and familiar. He started the engine, and the hum vibrated through your chest. You leaned against him, heart racing as he sped through the quiet streets, narrating every detail.
“You see this line?” he said, pointing to the side of the car. “That’s pure aerodynamic engineering. You wouldn’t notice it at first glance, but it changes the whole drive feel. And the trim—this stitching? Top-notch. Only BMW does it like this.”
You laughed, resting your head against his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous?” he scoffed, mock-offended. “I am passionate. There’s a difference.”
By the time you arrived at the dealership, your chest hurt from laughing, your heart full. He dragged you through the rows of cars, opening doors, insisting you sit inside each model, letting you feel the engines, the interiors, the subtle nuances that only someone obsessed with BMWs could explain. You hung on his every word, watching him glow as he shared his world with you.
Hours later, you were sitting in a new car, laughing as he teased you about where you were leaning, how you held the wheel. Your hands brushed, lingering, and he leaned closer, smiling.
“You know,” he murmured, voice soft, “this doesn’t have to be about the car. I just like being with you. I like showing you this stuff because you make it fun. You make me happy.”
Your heart swelled. “I like being with you too. Even if I don’t understand any of this.”
He chuckled and kissed your forehead, pulling you into a warm hug. “Then that’s all that matters.”
The sun had finally set, leaving stars twinkling overhead. And there, with him, surrounded by cars and laughter and the warmth of his hand in yours, you realized something important: it didn’t matter which BMW you picked. It didn’t even matter which one you bought. What mattered was him. His passion. His heart. And the way he loved sharing it with you.
Girl did you see the elimination Chamber yesterday?😭🐍 Randy won
I’m glad he won. I just wish Je’von stayed in a lil longer cuz it would’ve been entertaining to see randy and je’von go at it again cuz their NXT match was entertaining.
The Request: “YO! Bucky! I'm Hydra, so...Your a njrse, you care for him...he panicked when he is out of soilder mode, with all the blood....every time his memory wioes, you have to watch (Platonic FLUFF pls) YOU CAN MAKE THE READER ANYTHING! And like he always brings back small trinkets when he remembers you, you keep them in your desk, every time he firgets, new trinket, PLATONIC LOVE AND ANGST!!!!”
Hydra doesn’t believe in comfort, but they do believe in efficiency. That’s how you end up assigned to him.
Officially, you’re there to monitor vitals when the Winter Soldier comes out of cryo or returns from a mission. Unofficially, you’re the one they call when he panics.
It only happens when Soldier mode drops too fast.
The first time, he’s covered in blood— not his, but that doesn’t matter. He stares at his hands like they’re separate creatures. Like they’ve betrayed him. His breathing goes sharp and shallow, shoulders tight, eyes unfocused. The handlers reach for restraints.
You step in before they can.
“Give him a minute,” you say evenly, already moving into his line of sight. You keep your voice calm, grounded. “Hey. Look at me.”
His gaze snaps to you, wild and frightened in a way the Winter Soldier is never supposed to be.
“You’re in the medical wing,” you tell him quietly. “You’re not in the field. You’re safe.”
Safe is a relative word in Hydra, but he clings to it anyway.
You guide him through breathing like he’s just another overwhelmed patient. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. You don’t touch him until he nods, barely perceptible. When your hand settles against his wrist to check his pulse, he flinches once, then stays.
After that, they assign you to all his resets.
You hate that you have to watch.
They say it’s for observation. Neural response. Conditioning stability. You stand behind reinforced glass while they strap him down and read the words. His jaw tightens every time. His eyes flicker, and more than once, they land on your reflection.
The moment recognition fades is always the worst part.
He never screams. He just goes distant.
When they unstrap him, he’s blank and obedient. He doesn’t know you.
So you introduce yourself again.
Every time.
“I’m the nurse assigned to your recovery.”
He nods once, polite in a detached, mechanical way. “Understood.”
The first trinket happens by accident. At least, you think it does.
He returns from a mission quieter than usual. You’re cleaning a shallow cut along his shoulder when he reaches into his pocket and places something on your tray.
A coin. Old. Scratched.
“You dropped this,” he says.
You frown slightly. “I don’t think I-”
He looks at you then, not suspicious, just certain. “It was on the ground.”
You take it carefully. “Thank you.”
It sits in your desk drawer by the end of the day.
After the next wipe, he doesn’t recognize you again. His eyes track you like any other staff member. Professional. Guarded.
You introduce yourself. Check his pulse. Shine a light in his eyes. He answers questions in clipped, precise tones.
Three weeks later, he comes back from another assignment. There’s dried blood on his jaw. You’re disinfecting his metal arm at the seam when he opens his flesh hand.
A small, pressed flower rests in his palm, a little crushed but still purple.
“You dropped this,” he says, softer this time.
Your chest tightens, but you keep your expression neutral. “Thank you.”
It joins the coin.
It becomes a pattern after that.
A smooth river stone. A bent paperclip twisted into something almost like a ring but not quite. A scrap of fabric. A broken compass that doesn’t point anywhere useful.
He always says the same thing.
“You dropped this.”
And he always looks faintly unsettled when you thank him, like he’s not sure why it matters that you keep them.
The panic attacks are worse after wipes.
He comes back from a particularly brutal mission shaking hard enough that the metal of his arm hums faintly. Soldier mode slips without warning. He stares at the red on his knuckles like he’s seeing it for the first time.
“I didn’t mean to,” he says hoarsely.
You step closer, slow and deliberate. “You’re here,” you remind him. “You made it back.”
His breathing stutters. “Did I hurt people?”
You don’t lie, but you don’t let him drown either. “You were sent on a mission. That’s on them. Not you.”
He looks at you then, searching your face like you’re a mirror he’s afraid to look into.
“Am I…” His voice drops. “Am I a monster?”
You don’t hesitate this time.
“No,” you say firmly. “You’re a person who’s being used.”
His shoulders shake once, barely contained. You reach up slowly and rest your hand over the center of his chest, grounding him. “Feel that? That’s your heart. They haven’t taken that.”
He closes his eyes. Leans, just slightly, into the pressure of your hand. Not romantic. Not possessive. Just someone steadying himself against something solid.
The next day, they wipe him again.
He doesn’t know you.
You introduce yourself.
Weeks pass. More missions. More resets. More trinkets filling your drawer until it barely closes.
One night, after a shorter mission, he lingers when you finish wrapping gauze around his ribs. His brow furrows like he’s trying to remember a word.
“You,” he says slowly.
You wait.
“Have we…?”
His confusion isn’t strategic. It’s almost hopeful.
“We work together,” you say gently. “I help patch you up.”
He nods, but his gaze doesn’t leave your face. Something in him is pulling at a thread he can’t quite grasp.
Later, when you’re cleaning up, he sets something on your desk instead of the tray.
It’s a small metal tag. Roughly cut. One edge still sharp.
On it, scratched unevenly, is a single letter.
B.
Your throat goes tight.
“You dropped it,” he says automatically, but the words don’t carry the same certainty anymore.
You turn the tag over in your fingers. “Did I?”
He frowns faintly, like the answer matters. “I… don’t know.”
You close your hand around it, careful and reverent without letting him see how much it means.
“Thank you,” you say, the same as always.
He watches you tuck it into your drawer with the others. His gaze lingers there, thoughtful, almost protective.
He doesn’t remember giving them to you.
He doesn’t remember the breathing exercises. Or the nights you sat beside his cot while he trembled. Or the way you always say his name when the handlers only use numbers.
But some part of him, the part they haven’t managed to burn out, keeps choosing you.
Not as a lover.
Not as a fantasy.
As safe.
As constant.
As the person who will stand behind the glass and witness every erasure and still be there when he opens his eyes again.
The next time they strap him down, his expression is calm. Detached. Almost empty.
But just before they start, his gaze flicks to you.
And he taps his metal fingers lightly against the armrest. Once. Twice.
You recognize it immediately.
Inhale.
Hold.
Exhale.
When it’s over and he looks at you without recognition, you swallow down the ache and step forward with your clipboard.
“I’m the nurse assigned to your recovery,” you say gently.
He studies you for a long moment.
And though his voice is neutral when he answers, there’s the faintest softness in it.
can you do a part 2 of “practice makes perfect” where malachi has to go on stage finally and lila doesn’t stop crying until she either sees him on stage or until he comes back to her?
Practice Makes Perfect 2
Part 1
Malachi Barton X Reader
Summary: When Malachi has to go on stage, Lila breaks down the second he walks away. No matter how hard you try to comfort her, she won’t stop crying. The moment he finally gets offstage and rushes back to her, she melts into his arms and instantly calms down, making it clear just how strong their bond has become.
The green room was buzzing, a mix of pre-show nerves, last-minute sound checks, and the low hum of the audience filtering in from the auditorium. Lila, still perched on your hip, wriggled slightly, her little brows furrowed in frustration. You’d thought she’d nap through soundcheck, maybe even the first act, but apparently, the world had other plans.
“Okay… we’re up in ten,” a stagehand called, checking their clipboard and glancing toward the stage doors.
You glanced down at Lila, who immediately started whimpering, her tiny hands clutching at your shirt. You jiggled her gently, trying to soothe her.
“Shh, it’s okay, mama. Malachi’s going to go and preform, and then he’ll be right back, I promise,” you murmured softly.
She didn’t seem convinced. In fact, the moment she spotted him moving toward the stage with the cast, her cries escalated. Her wails were sharp, high-pitched, and utterly heart-wrenching, drawing a few sympathetic looks from other crew members.
Malachi noticed immediately, turning back just in time to see her tiny fists pumping in the air. His face softened, but there was an unmistakable flicker of panic as he came over to her.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay, Lila,” he said gently, crouching so their eyes met. “I gotta go on stage for a bit, but I’ll be right back, okay? Can you be brave for me?”
She didn’t pause. She only cried louder, leaning toward him as if she could physically pull him back from the stage.
“Uh… maybe this is worse than I thought,” you muttered, adjusting Lila in your arms.
Malachi crouched lower, resting his hands on her tiny shoulders. “I know… I hate this. But I promise, the stage isn’t going anywhere. I’ll be back in just a little bit. Can you show me how strong you are?”
She sobbed, leaning into him, and you could see the panic flicker across his face.
“I can’t leave her like this,” he muttered under his breath, but then the stagehand waved him toward the wings. He shot you a glance, full of apology and guilt.
“Go,” you urged softly, squeezing his hand. “She’ll survive. Kind of…I think.”
Reluctantly, he straightened and gave you one last smile before heading toward the stage. The second he disappeared behind the curtain, Lila’s cries escalated even more. She clung to you desperately, twisting in your arms as if she could follow him through the walls.
You tried everything: rocking her, rattles, singing softly, bouncing her slightly, even pulling out her pacifier. Nothing worked. She turned her little face toward the stage doors, pointing and screaming as if she could sense exactly where he was. Her tiny fists pounded against your chest.
Meanwhile, backstage, Malachi tried to focus on the performance, but every note in his chest tightened at the sound of her crying. He could hear it faintly through the monitors, the little wails cutting through the music and the cheers of the crowd. Every lyric, every beat, felt heavier knowing she was upset.
During rehearsal, one of the cast members leaned over. “Man… your tiny fan’s losing it,” they whispered, nodding toward the green room.
Malachi’s chest tightened. “Yeah… I don’t know how to make it better from here.”
“Just… be back quick,” the castmate said with a small shrug. “She’ll be fine.”
But Malachi didn’t feel fine.
——
On the other side, you were trying your best to calm Lila down, pacing the green room and humming quietly. “Look, she’s singing a little song,” you whispered, improvising a silly tune, but Lila only shook her head and squealed louder. You knew she recognized Malachi’s absence; she was too young to understand time, but old enough to know when someone she loved was gone.
“I know, I know,” you murmured, bouncing her gently. “He’s up there singing. He’ll be back soon.”
She only cried harder, twisting toward the stage doors again. Her little hands pounded at your shoulder, and you realized she was determined to see him no matter what.
Then, during a quieter moment in the performance, a shadow moved at the edge of the stage curtain. You froze. Malachi had peeked through, scanning the backstage area. The second Lila spotted him, her cries paused for just a second. Eyes wide, she squealed with delight, reaching her arms toward him.
He waved, mouthing, I see you! and she shrieked with joy. Your chest tightened at how quickly her mood changed—instant recognition, instant happiness.
——
By the end of the song, the audience erupted into applause, but Malachi didn’t even register it. He bolted offstage, nearly forgetting his microphone, straight toward you and Lila.
“She’s been waiting for you!” you laughed, holding Lila up. The baby squealed, throwing her tiny arms around his neck. Malachi scooped her up effortlessly, spinning her gently in a way that made her giggle uncontrollably.
“I… I missed you so much!” he said, planting kisses on her cheeks, letting her little legs kick excitedly. “You’re the boss of me, remember?”
“You’d be such a good dad,” you teased, snapping a picture. “I swear if the internet saw this they’d explode.”
He grinned, holding her close. “Let them. As long as she’s happy, I don’t care about anything else.”
Lila clung to him, little arms wrapped around his neck. You watched as he bounced her lightly on his knee, whispered something that made her laugh so hard she nearly toppled over, and kissed the top of her head again.
“You two are inseparable now,” you murmured, brushing a hand over his arm.
He looked down at her, softening in a way that made your chest ache. “I could get used to this,” he murmured.
“Used to what?” you asked lightly, though your heart thudded.
“Being her favorite,” he replied, glancing at you with a small smile. “And… maybe being yours too.”
You swallowed hard, unable to speak, just watching him carefully hold Lila as she laughed, oblivious to the chaos of the show around them.
—-
“Did you see her?” you asked softly, brushing Lila’s hair from her face. “She’s completely obsessed.”
“I saw,” he said, scooping Lila onto his hip one last time. “And I… I get it. She’s the best little person I’ve ever met. I don’t want to leave her side.”
You laughed quietly, heart full, as Malachi and Lila sat together in the green room, her tiny hand gripping his curls, his hand gently holding hers. The internet could speculate all it wanted, there was no denying what you saw with your own eyes: the bond between your baby sister and Malachi was real, pure, and unshakable.
And you, watching them together, finally understood why everyone kept saying he was “dad material.” Because this…this patience, this softness, this love. Couldn’t be faked.
hii! could you please do something super fluff with Malachi, maybe it’s the readers birthday and he told her that he couldn’t be there because of tour, but he managed to get free time and went to her birthday party. And then at the end maybe sometime more cute, like both of them talking, hugging and kissing? <3
Just for a few hours
Malachi Barton X Fem!Reader
Summary: Malachi Barton surprises you on your birthday, showing up despite tour and turning an ordinary party into an unforgettable, heartwarming night full of laughter, hugs, and kisses.
You woke up on your birthday to the faint vibration of your phone against your pillow. The sunlight was spilling through the blinds, painting golden stripes across your sheets, and for a moment, your chest swelled with excitement.
Until you remembered.
Malachi was on tour. Miles away. A different time zone. Busy, busy, busy.
The buzzing stopped, leaving your chest hollow. You reached for the phone anyway, hoping against hope that maybe, just maybe, he’d managed to steal a moment to text you.
And he did exactly that
Big Sexy😛🫰:
Happy birthday, beautiful. I wish I was waking up next to you right now.
Your chest tightened. Muscle memory made you smile, even when your heart wanted to ache.
You:
Thank you ♥️I miss you.
Almost instantly, his typing bubble appeared.
Big Sexy😛🫰:
I miss you more. I’m so sorry I can’t be there today. I hate it.
You blinked hard, staring at the ceiling. You were older now. Mature enough to understand schedules and tours and flights that didn’t line up. You knew you shouldn’t let yourself cry, but for a moment, the room felt impossibly large and empty.
You:
It’s okay. I understand. Go be amazing.
Another pause. Longer this time.
Big Sexy😛🫰:
I promise I’ll make it up to you. Tonight, call me after the party?
You agreed, forcing a smile even though your chest ached. The word party felt heavier than it should have. Birthdays were supposed to feel magical. Today felt… quiet, too quiet.
——
The day passed in a blur of well-wishes, errands, and last-minute party prep. Your friends tried their best. Coffee runs, silly photo shoots, over-the-top excitement, but every time your phone buzzed, your heart leapt for the wrong reason. Notifications from family, reminders, and group chat messages lit up your screen. None of them were him.
By the evening, the backyard was transformed into a cozy little haven. Fairy lights hung in delicate arcs along the fence, soft music floated from speakers, and the smell of chocolate cake mingled with the crisp night air. People laughed, glasses clinked, and the world felt like it should. But the empty space beside you was loud, unbearably loud.
Someone handed you a cupcake with a single candle perched on top. The flame flickered gently in the breeze.
“Okay,” your friend said, smiling softly. “Birthday wish time.”
You held the cupcake carefully, closing your eyes.
You wished for him.
A creak broke the silence, the sound of metal on metal. Slow. Intentional. You opened your eyes, confused, just as the chatter behind you fell into stunned silence.
Your heartbeat accelerated.
Then:
“You gonna make that wish without me?”
That voice. Your voice. Warm. Familiar. Perfectly real.
You turned.
Malachi was standing at the gate.
Not on your phone screen. Not in a dream. There.
Your chest seized. For a second, your mind couldn’t process it. He looked tired—dark circles under his eyes, messy hair—but his grin was nervous and excited all at once.
“…Malachi?” you whispered.
He laughed softly, a little shaky. “Hi, baby.”
You barely registered your own movements before you were running toward him. The cupcake fell onto the table, forgotten. You threw yourself into his chest, arms wrapping around him as tightly as you could manage.
He stumbled back slightly, hands instantly securing your waist, holding you like he’d never let go.
“Oh my god,” he breathed, pressing his forehead to yours. “I missed you.”
Tears pricked your eyes. You couldn’t help them. You laughed and cried all at once, clinging to him as if the world would vanish if you let go.
“You said you couldn’t come,” you choked out.
“I know,” he murmured, hands brushing your hair from your face. “I lied.”
Your brows furrowed mockingly. “Oh how dare you!?”
“I couldn’t tell you,” he admitted softly. “I barely got the time cleared, and I didn’t want to get your hopes up. But I had to see you.”
The sound of your friends erupting into cheers, laughter, and mock-shouting faded into the background. You didn’t hear it. You barely noticed it. All that mattered was him.
“You flew out here? Just for me?”
“For you,” he said simply. “Always for you.”
You threw your arms around him again, unable to stop yourself. He pressed his lips to your hair, then your forehead, then your nose, like he couldn’t decide where to start.
Later, after the initial chaos of hugs, photos, and countless excited squeals from your friends, the two of you slipped away. You found a quiet spot on the porch steps, sitting close together as Malachi wrapped his arms around you.
The night had cooled. Music from the party floated softly in the background, a faint hum rather than noise. You leaned back against him, resting your head on his shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of his hoodie.
“I really thought you weren’t coming,” you admitted softly.
His arms tightened around you. “Never. I’d never miss my favorite girls birthday.”
You turned your head, meeting his gaze. His eyes were tired but soft, full of something that made your chest flutter.
“You look exhausted,” you said gently.
He chuckled, brushing your hair back. “Yeah… but seeing you?” He shrugged, as if that alone explained everything. “Worth the crippling insomnia.”
You traced his jaw with your fingers. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“I wanted to,” he said. “I needed to. Even if it’s just a few hours, it’s the most important few hours of my life.”
The silence stretched comfortably between you. His thumb moved in slow, lazy circles on your arm. You let yourself sink into him.
“I hate being away from you,” he murmured. “Tour’s amazing, but, tour isn’t you. It isn’t home.”
Your chest warmed. You cupped his face in your hands. “I’m proud of you,” you said softly. “Even when it’s hard.”
He searched your eyes. “Your support is my favorite part of all of it.”
You leaned in first, pressing your lips to his. The kiss was soft, slow, and full of warmth. Hands tangled in his hair, his hands at your waist, pulling you closer. The world melted around you.
When you pulled back, foreheads pressed together, he whispered, “Happy birthday.”
“The happiest,” you replied, laughing softly through the tears and smiles.
He kissed you again, slower this time, lingering like he wanted to memorize the moment. Then, he rested his forehead on yours, arms wrapped around you protectively.
“You’ve made this birthday unforgettable,” you said, voice muffled in his chest.
He laughed softly. “Oh yeah? Wait till next year.”
You leaned into him again, pressing kisses against his chest, his neck, his jaw. His hands roamed your back and hair, holding you steady, like he never wanted to let go.
The party continued inside, laughter and chatter fading in and out of the night, but you two were wrapped in a world of your own. Time slowed. Hearts beat in rhythm. Fingers intertwined. Words felt unnecessary.
Eventually, you rested against his chest, breathing him in.
He pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Even if it’s just for a little while…I’m home.”
“And I’m happy,” you whispered. “Because you’re here.”
He smiled, one of those gentle, heart-melting smiles, and kissed you again. This time on the lips, tender, lingering, full of promise. When he pulled back slightly, he rested his forehead against yours, his hands still wrapped around you.
“I love you,” he murmured.
“I love you too,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.
The night stretched on, quiet and perfect. Wrapped in each other, the party became background noise, the lights became stars just for you, and for the first time that day, you felt completely, undeniably full.
Hey girl~ I missed you and your writing so much, can you please do dating hcs on rko and maybe a one shot too? Have a wonderful day🤍
Randy Orton, but he’s in love
Summary: Just some randy orton head cannons and a short one shot at the end
Content: Fluff
WC: 836
A/N: I’m so glad you requested for Randy Orton cuz i haven’t had a single idea for him.
TO REQUEST: rules and who i write for
- He's not big on words. like… at all. but he shows up. That’s his love language.
- Always has a hand on you. Doesn’t matter where. your thigh, your waist, your(his) hoodie sleeve. It’s how he grounds himself.
- Protective in a quiet way. Never loud or dramatic, just suddenly standing a little closer when someone’s staring too long.
- Dry humor + low voice combo. He teases you constantly but it never comes across as mean/disrespectful.
- Prefers staying in rather than taking you out. Takeout, tv on low, you curled into his side while he acts like he hasn’t been watching you the entire time
- Fixes things without telling you. Your cars brake was making a weird noise and you woke up the next day with a new brake line.
- Gym dates where he doesn’t hover. Just watches you from across the room, he knows you’re capable.
- Secretly loves when you steal his hoodies. He’ll complain but never means it.
- When he’s tired, he gets softer. Voice drops an octave, movements slower, pulls you closer like you’re the only thing keeping him afloat.
- Saying “i love you” is rare, but when he does, it’s quiet and serious and makes you feel like a teenager with their highschool crush.
- He's big on routine. Morning coffee together, same seat at the table, you being there becomes an important part of his day, whether he acts like it or not.
- Doesn’t text much, but when he does it’s purposeful. home yet? eat something. be safe.
- Gets weirdly territorial over you in subtle ways. Will have his arm over the back of your chair, stands behind you in lines, hand on your hip like it belongs there.
- Let’s you see him before matches when he’s quiet and focused. He doesn’t need reassurance, just your presence.
- When he’s stressed, he goes silent, not distant. It took some time for you to learn the difference.
- Hates being in big crowds when you’re there. Will positions himself so you’re shielded, even if you don’t ask to be.
- Shows affection by sharing space, which he doesn’t do. He sits close, brushes past you on purpose, will choose to be in the same room, even if you’re doing separate things.
- If you’re anxious, he grounds you physically. Hand squeeze, forehead touch, voice reminding you where you are.
- Surprisingly domestic. Good at cooking simple meals, that he also cleans as he goes. He does this expecting nothing in return.
- If someone hurts you emotionally, he doesn’t rage. He shuts down and makes sure you’re okay before making any rash decisions.
Sundays are quiet.
The kind of quiet that settles into the walls, soft and unhurried. Randy’s already awake when you pad into the kitchen, hair messy, hoodie (which is of course his) too big. Coffee’s brewing, low and steady, filling the space with warmth.
He glances over his shoulder when he hears you, mouth tipping just slightly at the corner.
“Mornin’.”
You hum back and lean against the counter, watching him move around the kitchen like it’s second nature. There's something comforting about it, how nothing he does feels forced. Like he’s exactly where he wants to be.
He slides a mug toward you without asking. Cream and sugar added to your taste.
You wrap your hands around it. “You remembered.”
He shrugs, easy. “Course I did.”
You sit at the table while he finishes cooking, his knee brushing yours when he passes. It’s deliberate. It always is. You’re not sure whether he’s trying to rile you up or let you know where his mind is truly at.
When he finally sits across from you, he reaches out, hooking a finger around yours. Not flashy. Not demanding. Just there.
“You got plans today?” He asks.
You shake your head. “Not really.”
His thumb taps once against your hand, satisfied. Like that was the right answer.
After breakfast, you end up on the couch, legs draped over his lap. the tv’s on, volume low, something neither of you is paying attention to. He scrolls on his phone with one hand, the other resting warm and steady on your shin.
His thumb moves absentmindedly, tracing slow lines like he’s remembering what you feel like.
You shift closer without thinking. He adjusts automatically, arm settling heavier around you.
“Comfortable ?” He murmurs.
“Yeah,” you say. “You?”
He huffs softly. “Always when I'm with you.”
It’s said so casually you almost didn’t notice.
The afternoon drifts, light shifts through the windows. At some point, your head ends up against his shoulder. He presses a kiss into your hair, brief but certain.
You tilt your head up to look at him. “Do you ever get bored of this?”
He frowns slightly, like he doesn’t understand the question. Then he looks down at you, hand squeezing your leg gently.
“Nah,” he says. “This is the good stuff.”
You settle back against him, heart full in that quiet way that doesn’t need words.
Outside, the world keeps moving.
Inside, everything stays exactly where it belongs.
neteyam, lo'ak, and the children of avatar: fiction DOES affect reality
i made a post the other day (it's right below this one) about how if you're gonna write smut about minors you can't also be shit at writing, of course my stance being that you shouldn't write smut about minors period.
but then a comment was left (this commenter has been blocked) stating that neteyam and lo'ak are fictional and not alive. thank you captain obvious. then it continued in the replies saying "being able to distinguish fiction from reality is the sign of a mentally healthy person".
let's all get medieval for a second and bring back shaming in the town square. because i don't care. some people need to be shamed.
fiction absolutely affects reality. your moral compass (hopefully) doesn't stop the second you open up wattpad or watch a new movie or play a video game.
because i'm a straight women, i mainly venture into male character/female reader fanfics and drabbles. and i've noticed something.
some fanfic writers are a little too comfortable sexualizing teenage boys. i'm mainly focusing here on neteyam, lo'ak, aonung, rotxo, etc but this happens across all fandoms.
let's remind ourselves of their ages.
neteyam and aonung are 15, lo'ak is 14, and rotxo is 13. these are babies, children. if they were real children they'd be between 7th and 9th grade. obviously, if you are the same age as these characters you may view this a bit differently than i do, but being 19, it's a lot easier for me to see just how young kids these ages look.
and i began to think about how normalized it is to sexualize teenage boys. disclaimer: this is not me downplaying sexualization of teen girls compared to teen boys and vice versa. this is just observation and analysis.
in today's social climate, sexualization of teen girls has become a prominent topic of conversation. nowadays we're much quicker to call our predatory behavior among men (or adults in general) when it comes to adolescent girls. unfortunately, though, this is not the case for boys.
this system is perpetuated and upheld by mostly men. when young boys are raped by women, adult men often claim that they probably liked it, and praise these young boys for getting action, when in reality it's rape.
telling a young boy he probably enjoyed getting raped by a woman exists in the same field as asking a woman what she was wearing when she was raped by a man.
and men are often quick to make fun of young boys when they're raped by other men. because it's "gay" (sorry, there's no way to dance around that language).
rape culture and pedophilia is upheld by men in real life society. but it's not a stretch to say that cis, straight, white men are the smallest demographic to consume fanfiction within fandom space (if any do at all). fanfiction is basically the romance genre of general fiction, very few men (cis, staight) engage in writing, or reading it.
so as consumers of fanfiction, it's our job to not perpetuate and normalize the same kind of rape culture and pedophilia in fandom that men do in the real world.
men and women take in mature/pornographic content in two different forms. men often watch, women read. i'll focus on men (and only fictional mediums) for right now.
when a man has sexual attraction to kids (fancy way of saying pedophile), he seeks out lolicon hentai, AKA fictional depictions of little girls in sexual encounters. but hey, it's fictional, so it's not a problem right? wrong! because this man is seeking out lolicon hentai because he doesn't have access to the real thing.
here's the stipulation. the young girls depicted in that medium are either not yet in or just entering the double digits in age.
so at what age does it become "okay" to depict a minor sexually? the correct answer is never. but the line often gets blurred for characters aged 13-17.
in real life, we'd cringe at a man for catcalling a teenage girl on the street, we'd shame older women for claiming a teenage boy in a reality TV show is "sexy", so why is it suddenly different when the characters are fictional?
this commenter also replied to me saying "so should we convict james cameron for killing a teenager".
we are SO close to getting the point but it's going right over our heads.
james' writing neteyam to die during the war is ALSO reflective of real life. countless young boys have been sent off to fight in wars before they turned 18, and many other children died as citizens during wartimes. because all life taken in war is pointless. this was depicted in neteyam's death.
so no, james did not kill a teenager, but he did write a realistic storyline that is reflective of the world we live in. it'd be another thing if you sought out videos of children being killed for enjoyment. that's a problem. just like seeking out sexual content of underage characters is a problem. because writing porn of preexisting characters for fun is not the same as writing a sci-fi book or a movie script
let's also talk about "aging up". when does it become problematic to "age up" a character? i'll give you a list and you tell me when:
1. to discuss what they might be like as adults
2. to share married life/parent life headcanons
3. to make porn about them
we all picked 3, right? i hope so. aging up a character so you can write about them sexually follows the same logic as a man lusting after a 16 year old girl but waiting until she's freshly 18 to come at her sexually. you're only making them older so you don't feel bad about writing porn of a minor.
tldr: when a smut reader or writer says "fiction doesn't affect reality", that's secret creeper talk for "i want to fuck underage teens but don't have access to them, so i use fictional characters to satisfy the need".
your consumption of media is directly reflective of your morals.
would a leftist binge watch charlie kirk debates? would an environmental activist use chatGPT to cheat on their homework?
you do not need to read smut of neteyam, lo'ak, aonung, and rotxo. fiction-fuck jake, tonowari and quaritch like the rest of us.
Can you write a jealous Roman. His wife is on tour and she brings out a male artist who obviously loves her. Thank youuuuu xoxoxoox!!!!
Roman reigns x Rihanna
After the applause
Roman Reigns x Rhianna
Summary: Roman watches Rhianna perform on tour and grows jealous when a male artist openly admires her. Though protective, not insecure, Roman asserts his presence backstage, and Rhianna reassures him of her loyalty, leaving their bond stronger and secure.
Content: Jealousy, Emotional Tension, Mild Possessiveness, Established Relationship
WC:1.2k
TO REQUEST: rules and who i write for
Roman hated arenas when he wasn’t the one walking out to the ring.
The noise hit differently when it wasn’t for him. Louder somehow. Less controlled. Thousands of voices screaming not his name, but hers. Rolling together into a sound that made his chest tighten in ways he didn’t want to unpack.
He stood half-hidden behind a stack of road cases near the side of the stage, hood pulled low, arms folded across his chest. Security knew who he was; nobody bothered him. They never did. Roman had that effect - people sensed him before they saw him.
The lights dimmed.
The crowd erupted.
And then Rhianna was there.
Roman felt it immediately. The shift in the air, the way everything seemed to orbit her without effort. She walked onto the stage like she owned it, confidence dripping from every step, glittering under lights that loved her almost as much as he did. She wore black tonight, fitted and sharp, hair pulled back just enough to show her neck.
His throat went dry.
He watched her like he always did: cataloging, grounding himself. The way her shoulders relaxed when she hit the first note. The tiny smile she gave when the crowd sang back to her. The way she moved like the music was fused into her brain.
Then someone else stepped into the light.
Roman’s jaw tightened instantly.
Drake. Tall, lean, dressed too cool for his own good, walked out with a grin that was just a little too pleased. He lifted his mic, nodded to the crowd, and when he turned toward Rhianna, his expression changed.
Roman saw it.
That look.
It wasn’t admiration. It wasn’t professional respect. It was open. Like he’d forgotten, or didn’t care, there were thousands of people watching and one very married woman standing a few feet away.
Roman leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing.
They started the song together.
At first, Roman told himself he was overreacting. It was a duet. Of course they stood close. Of course they moved in sync. That was performance, that was the job.
But then he laughed mid-verse when Rhianna ad-libbed a note, looking at her like she did that specifically for him. When she brushed past him to cross the stage, his hand hovered at her waist, not touching, but trying not to.
Roman’s fingers flexed.
He wasn’t used to feeling like this — this slow, simmering heat crawling up his spine, this urge to step out into the open and remind the world who she goes home to. He trusted her. That wasn’t the issue.
The issue was that this man clearly didn’t care.
Roman shifted his weight, jaw clenched, eyes never leaving the stage. Every laugh they shared felt too private. Every glance lingered half a second longer than necessary.
By the time the song ended, Roman’s patience was spread thin.
The crowd roared. Drake bowed dramatically, reaching for Rhianna’s hand and lifting it high like they were equals, like he had any claim to the moment.
Roman turned away before the lights faded.
——
Backstage smelled like sweat, perfume, and electricity. The narrow hallway buzzed with movement. Crew members shouting, dancers laughing, managers barking instructions. Roman leaned against the wall near her dressing room, arms crossed, posture relaxed.
On the inside, he was quite the opposite.
The door opened.
Rhianna stepped out, towel around her neck, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. The moment she saw him, her entire expression changed. It was softened, warmed, focused.
“Baby,” she breathed, smile breaking wide.
She crossed the distance between them in seconds, hands fisting in his hoodie as she pressed herself into him. Roman wrapped his arms around her without hesitation, pulling her in tight, face dropping to her hair.
“Hey,” he murmured.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming tonight,” she said, voice muffled against his chest.
“I know.”
She pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes searching. “Everything okay?”
Roman studied her face, really looked at her. She was glowing, alive, exactly where she was meant to be. Pride swelled in his chest right alongside the jealousy he hadn’t shaken.
“I watched the show,” he said carefully.
Her lips twitched. “Ah.”
“You brought him out,” Roman added.
“Roman-”
“I saw the way he was looking at you.”
She sighed, but there was no real irritation in it. More like she’d expected this. “You look like you’re about to start a fight in this hallway.”
“I might,” he said flatly.
That made her laugh. A soft, familiar sound that eased something in his chest despite how he’s feeling. “You’re ridiculous.”
Before he could respond, footsteps approached.
“Rhi! That was insane out there.”
Drake appeared at the end of the hall, energy still buzzing off him, sweat-darkened shirt clinging to his frame. He slowed when he noticed Roman, eyes flicking up, recalibrating.
“This your husband?” he asked, tone light but curious.
Roman straightened.
“Yeah,” Rhianna said calmly, slipping her hand into Roman’s without thinking. “This is Roman.”
The man held out his hand. “Man, huge fan. You’re uh…bigger in person.”
Roman looked at the offered hand for a beat, then took it. His grip was firm — not crushing, not aggressive. Just enough to make a point.
“Appreciate it,” Roman said. “You did good out there.”
Something shifted. Drake laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “Well, I’m gonna go take a shower. See you later, Rhi.”
He lingered a second too long, eyes flicking back to her before he walked away.
The second he was gone, Roman exhaled slowly.
“You didn’t have to stare him down like that,” Rhianna said, though she didn’t pull her hand away.
“Yes, I did.”
She turned to face him fully now, studying him the same way he’d studied her earlier. “You jealous?”
“I’m protective.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Roman hesitated, then shrugged. “Yeah. I’m jealous.”
Her lips curved. Not mocking, not dismissive. Understanding. “Roman, he’s a feature.”
“He’s a problem.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “You don’t trust me?”
“I never said that,” Roman said immediately. “I don’t trust him.”
Her expression softened. She stepped closer, hands resting on his chest. “I notice everything you think I don’t,” she said quietly. “I saw it too.”
He looked down at her, surprised. “You did?”
“Of course,” she said. “But noticing isn’t the same as entertaining.”
Roman’s shoulders eased a fraction.
“You’re allowed to feel things,” she continued. “But don’t keep those things from me.”
He brushed his thumb along her jaw, grounding himself in the familiar warmth of her skin. “I hate being away from you.”
“I know.”
“I hate watching other men forget themselves around you.”
She smirked. “Occupational hazard.”
“Don’t joke.”
“I’m not,” she said gently. “I’m yours. Always.”
The words settled deep, quieting the noise in his head.
——
Later, Roman stayed.
He sat in the corner of her dressing room while she changed, listening to her ramble about the set, about a note she almost missed, about how the crowd felt different tonight. He watched her the way he always did, like he was memorizing her again.
Drake passed by once, peeking in to say goodnight.
This time, he kept his distance.
Smart man.
When the bus finally quieted and the night stretched out, Rhianna curled into Roman’s side, legs draped over his lap.
“You still mad?” she asked.
“No,” Roman said. “Just aware.”
She smiled sleepily. “Good.”
He kissed her forehead, arms tightening around her. “You’re mine.”
She hummed contentedly. “And you’re dramatic.”
Roman chuckled, low and warm, holding her close as the bus rolled on into the dark. Secure in the only thing that had ever truly mattered.
Can you write one where the wife has a panic attack while grocery shopping, and the husband drops everything and comes to her rescue to talk her down quietly in aisle seven?
Roman reigns x Rihanna
Warnings: panic attack, I went crazy with the italic button🌚
WC: 3.5K
A/N: Theres rlly no reason for me not posting this other than the fact that i didn’t. So i apologize for that
TO REQUEST: rules and who i write for
The store had always been just a store - automatic doors and humming coolers, fluorescent lights and end-cap displays - but today it felt like a machine she’d been fed into. Rhianna steered a cart past the sliding doors and the noise swallowed her whole: squeaking wheels, tinny pop music, the intercom crackling about a weekend sale. The air smelled like citrus cleaner and warm bread. A child somewhere laughed, then wailed, then laughed again.
In and out, she told herself. Milk, bread, cereal, fruit, easy.
She tucked her list under her phone in the child seat and pushed forward. A woman in a blazer brushed by, murmuring a distracted “sorry.” An older couple examined avocados with a seriousness that would have made her smile another day. Today, everything landed wrong, too loud, too close, edges too sharp. She tried to blink it away. She had slept fine, eaten breakfast, texted Roman a dumb picture of a crooked heart she’d drawn in jam on toast. She was fine.
By the time she hit aisle three, a cart with a wobbly wheel had found the exact frequency to drill into her skull. skreek… skreek… skreek. Every few seconds. She changed aisles to escape it. The sound followed anyway, or she imagined it did. She couldn’t tell which was worse.
She adjusted her grip on the cart handle and looked down at the list. The handwriting jumped at her, uneven where her pen had snagged. Granola, Kids’ cereal, Oats. She made it to aisle seven on autopilot, the familiar sign overhead-7: Cereal • Oatmeal • Breakfast Bars-floating in her vision like it was printed on glass. Rows of boxes lined up like a crowd holding their breath.
Her chest felt tight. Not bad-tight, not yet. Just… contained, too full. She took a slow breath and reached for the granola. The cardboard edges ticked against her fingers. She set it gently in the cart and stared at the next shelf.
The colors blurred. Yellow bled into red bled into blue. Cartoon mascots smiled too wide. The longer she looked, the less the boxes looked like food and the more they looked like noise made physical.
Pick one, she told herself. Any one, it doesn’t matter. She locked her knees, counting the breath in: one, two, three, four. Held it: one, two. Let it out: one, two, three, four. The next inhale came fast, shallow, caught at the top like her lungs were smaller than they’d been a minute ago.
Down the aisle, a teenage boy said something too loudly into a phone and laughed. In another aisle, a bottle slipped from someone’s hand and shattered, a chorus of apologies and the intercom chirping for a cleanup. A toddler began to cry in long, low moans that trembled on the ends, the kind of cry that promised to rise to a scream. Rhianna’s skin prickled. Heat climbed her neck.
She flattened her palm on the cart handle and felt how slick it had become. Her heart ticked faster-okay, okay, okay-like a metronome suddenly outpacing the song. She swallowed and it scraped, like she’d swallowed sand. You’re fine. You’re at the store. People do this every day. You’re not in danger.
A stranger’s laugh ricocheted off the shelves and snapped on the back of her skull. The aisle narrowed. The ceiling seemed lower. Her vision tunneled as if the shelves were leaning in, cereal boxes pressing toward her face. Letters refused to behave like letters. She blinked and her eyes burned. The beat of her pulse grew loud enough to drown the music. Her fingers tingled. Her knees softened.
Not here. She reached for her phone. It felt like trying to pick up a bottle with oven mitts, everything clumsy, everything slightly wrong. She jammed her hand into her bag, knocked her keys, scraped her knuckles on the zipper. The silly sting of it almost tipped her over. She got the phone out and her thumb hovered over the rectangle with his name. The screen shook because her hands were shaking. She pressed anyway.
It rang once.
“Baby?” His voice traveled through the tiny speaker like a hand catching hers mid-fall. Steady, warm, familiar enough to make her eyes flood. Just the sound made room in her chest.
“Ro-” The second syllable clipped off. Air skittered. “I-can’t-”
“Where are you?” Calm. Focused. Not a wobble in it.
“Grocery store,” she whispered because anything louder would have broken into a sob. The world tilted. She caught the sign out of the corner of her eye like a lifeline. “Aisle seven. I can’t-”
“I’m coming,” he said immediately, the words not rushed but already moving. “Sit on the floor if you need to. Put your back to the shelf. I’ll be there in minutes. You’re not alone. I’m on my way.”
The line ended. For a heartbeat, the silence from the phone felt like a cliff. Then his last sentence replayed in her head, i’m on my way, and she let herself obey. She slid down the shelving unit, the cold tile meeting her knees, her back finding the metal bar at the bottom of the shelf. The tile had a little give from years of wear; she put her palm on it and found a cool square. Five things she could touch. Tile, denim, the ridged rubber of the cart handle, the rough paper of her list, the cool rectangle of her phone. Four things she could see. The brushed steel of the shelf, a dent in the cereal box corner, a stray price tag on the floor, the smudge of someone’s shoe. Three things she could hear. the intercom fizzing, the freezer hum, a conversation about Almond Milk. Two she could smell. Bleach, sugar. One she could taste. The ghost of the coffee from the drive here. She tried to anchor in it. Her breath kept skittering away like a dropped coin.
A mother with a toddler slowed her cart, eyes soft. “Do you want me to-”
The woman nodded, squeezed her shoulder briefly, light, careful, and moved on. Rhianna dropped her forehead to her knees and counted the floor tiles between her shoes. She could feel her heartbeat in her mouth. He’s coming. He’s coming. Just hold the line.
——
Roman’s phone lit up with her name and he answered before the vibration finished its first buzz. The second he heard her voice-thinned to a wire, cutting and breathless-the rest of the house blurred. He did not think of the emails he was meant to send or the workout he’d cut short. He did not think about the to-do list stuck to the fridge. He thought about her on a tile floor, and his body moved.
“Where are you?” His keys were in his hand before he finished the sentence. One of his shoes was untied and he toed it against the heel of the other as he took the steps two at a time. Her whisper came through. grocery store, aisle seven. And he said i’m coming like a promise, like a vow, like an oath he’d already made a thousand different ways.
He drove by muscle memory, seatbelt half-on, the car chime protesting until he clicked it closed with a hard snap. He kept one hand clamped on the wheel, the other fisted on his thigh to stop himself from dialing her back every ten seconds. He watched lights like a hawk watches movement. The first red light swelled to a stop and he tasted metal in his mouth. He made himself breathe, four counts in, hold, four out - so he wouldn’t arrive at the store with his own pulse somewhere in his ears. She needed his steadiness more than she needed his speed, but he gave her both anyway.
He thought of the first time he’d found her like that. Years ago, back when the panic still felt to her like a personal failure. He’d learned to spot it, the tight jaw, the too-still shoulders, the laugh that missed the middle, and he’d taught himself to become gravity for her, something she could fall into without breaking. He’d read the articles. He’d asked questions. He’d memorized which tea she could swallow when her throat shrank and which songs loosened something in her chest. He’d practiced the counts with her until they belonged to them both.
A horn tore him back into the moment. The light had turned and he moved before the driver behind him had a chance to get righteous. “Hold on, baby,” he said to the empty car, to the phone he wasn’t on, to the version of her curled on a floor he couldn’t see yet. “I’m almost there.”
He took the last turn too fast, tires chirping, and slid into the first open spot at an angle that would annoy future him. He was out of the car before the engine fully exhaled, his strides long enough to startle the automatic doors into opening early for him. The cool air hit his face and he scanned left-right-left, a police sketch of aisle numbers snapping into place in his memory of this store.
A staff member in a red polo stepped into his path with a corporate smile. “Hi sir, can I help-”
“Aisle seven,” Roman said, not loud but not asking. Something in his tone made the man move aside without finishing the sentence.
He passed a pyramid of canned tomatoes, a stack of paper towels that looked like a fortress, an endcap of protein bars. He turned into seven and his eyes found her exactly where he knew she’d be –on the floor, back to the shelf, hands in her hair like she could hold her head together with her fingers. The world narrowed to a single point.
He didn’t care who looked. He didn’t care what anyone thought. He crouched so fast his knee tapped the tile and he didn’t feel it.
“Rhi,” he said, and her head snapped up like the sound was a rope thrown to her. He cupped her face with both hands, thumbs gentle and sure, the way he always did, as if he was reminding her what shape she was. “I’m here.”
Her eyes were glassy—too bright, too wide. “I can’t-” The breathe didn’t make it out.
“Yes, you can.” He tipped his forehead to hers. The world behind him softened, the lights dimmed enough in her periphery that the brightest thing left was his eyes. “You don’t have to do it alone. Just do it with me.”
He exaggerated his inhale so she could see it. One, his chest expanded under her gaze. Two, his shoulders lifted slightly, slow. Three, his ribs widened. Four, his belly softened. He held for two. Then he let it go like a tide, slow and steady, through slightly parted lips.
She tried to follow. The air snagged, but he didn’t correct her, didn’t rush her, didn’t make her feel like a test she could fail. “That’s it,” he murmured, thumb drawing lazy circles along her cheekbone. “Again. With me. In… two… three… four… hold… and out… two… three… four.”
Someone rolled a cart past behind them and Roman shifted his body, solid and quiet, blocking her from the aisle like a wall, like a door closed softly against noise. The boy on the phone reappeared and saw them and put the phone down. He moved on.
Her next inhale found more air. Not all, not easy yet, but more. Her shoulders dropped a fraction. A hiccuping sound escaped her and he recognized it, the little edge of a sob she tried to swallow because she hated to cry in public. He lowered his voice even more so that she could fall apart in the space between them and nowhere else.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, and because it was true, it steadied them both. “You’re safe. It’s just me and you. Aisle seven can wait its turn.”
Her mouth trembled. “It’s so stupid,” she whispered, because humiliation was a second panic on top of the first. “It’s cereal and I’m-”
“Nothing about this is stupid.” He said it with the soft steel he used when he needed to be believed. “This isn’t you being dramatic. This is your nervous system doing push-ups without your permission. We’re going to breathe it out. That’s it. That’s the whole job.”
Her laugh came out wet, surprised by the gentleness of that truth. She mirrored him again. In… out… The roar in her ears eased enough that she could hear his actual breath instead of just the idea of it. She matched the sound. He matched her, and for a moment they were a loop she could live inside.
“Can you give me five things you see?” he asked after a minute, not testing her, just inviting her back to the room.
“Your… hair tie on your wrist,” she said first, because it was the closest. “That dent in the-” She gestured with her chin to a crushed corner of a box. “The… price tag on the floor. Your… your left shoelace is loose.” He glanced down and smiled. “And… the… the little nick on your knuckle.”
He turned that knuckle so she could see it better, ridiculous how proud he felt that her eyes were focusing. “Four you can feel?”
“The floor. The… the seam on my jeans. Your hand-” She swallowed. “Your hand is warm. The… the cold air from the vent.”
He felt it too, the AC drifting down the aisle in a thin ribbon. “Three you can hear?”
“The… hum of the fridges.” Her voice steadied another notch. “Someone’s cart. Your… voice.”
“Two you can smell?”
“Bleach,” she said immediately, then smiled a little, apologetic. “And you.”
He let himself grin, quick and crooked. “One you can taste?”
“Mint. From my gum.”
“Perfect.” He smoothed a damp strand of hair away from her temple. “We stay here as long as you need. Anyone wants something from aisle seven, they can step around us.”
“People are staring,” she said, the shame blooming again at her edges. He could see it, the way she folded in when she thought she was inconvenient shaped.
“They’re not my people,” he said simply. “You are.”
The line went through her like heat in winter. She blew out a long breath that trembled only a little at the end. He kept counting with her, softer and softer as her body remembered what to do without needing numbers.
After a while—five minutes or ten, time did its strange rubber-band trick in moments like this, her hands stopped shaking. Her jaw unclenched. The blotchy heat receded from her chest. She blinked and found that she could read again—honey oat, cinnamon crunch, whole grain—words instead of noise. She looked at him like he’d hauled her up from a deep river. Maybe he had.
“I’m sorry,” she said, because muscle memory sometimes speaks before the mind does.
He shook his head once, slow. “Don’t apologize to me for trusting me.” He tipped his forehead against hers again, the smallest nudge. “You did exactly what I want you to do. You called. I came. That’s the whole playbook.”
Her throat tightened. “I hate that it happens here,” she whispered. “In public. I feel… small.”
“You’re not small.” He said it like a fact. “You feel small because anxiety lies for a living.” His hand slid from her cheek to the back of her neck, warm and grounding. “And even if you were small, I got big enough for both of us.”
She huffed a fragile laugh that let a little more air in. He used his knuckle to nudge a tear off her cheek and flicked it away like it offended him.
“You want to sit a little longer? Or try standing and walking to the front? We can take it slow. We can abandon the cart like the rebels we are.”
She looked past him at the cart. One bag of granola and a list that had gotten damp around the edges. “Let’s leave it,” she said, exhausted and honest. “I don’t… I don’t want to pick anything else right now.”
“Then we won’t.” He unfolded his knees, mindful of the way she might feel wobbly, and came up to stand, keeping his hand on her shoulder while she found vertical. When she swayed, he stepped in close, not obvious enough to draw eyes, obvious enough to her. “All right?”
“All right.”
They moved together down the aisle. He took the outside, the side that caught the carts and the curious, his body an easy barrier. At the end of the row he paused, scanned for the shortest path to the front, and then set their tiny parade in motion. The cashier glanced up as they approached, recognition flashing—Roman’s face wasn’t one you missed easily—and then softened when she clocked the rest. She slid her scanner aside and reached under the counter for a small bottle of water.
“Do you want this?” she asked quietly, no fanfare.
Rhianna hesitated, then nodded. “Thank you.”
Roman took it, cracked the cap, handed it to her. “Small sips,” he said, and she obeyed. The cold threaded down her throat like a truce.
“Do you… want me to hold your cart?” the cashier added, eyes flicking to aisle seven where it waited. “I can tell a stocker to put things back later.”
“Could you?” Roman asked, easy gratitude in his voice. “We appreciate it.”
“Of course.” The cashier’s smile was small and human. She didn’t ask for a selfie. She didn’t ask for anything. Roman filed her face away in that quiet place reserved for people who showed up for his wife in the smallest, best ways.
Outside, the heat of the day folded around them, softer than the store’s winter. The parking lot buzzed a different way. Distant engines, a squeal of brakes, gulls somewhere near the bakery dumpster. Roman clicked the car open and guided her into the passenger seat, then leaned over to adjust the vent so it aimed at her. He lowered the seatback a fraction. He rounded to his side and got in, not starting the car yet. The silence hugged them. The world was on the other side of glass.
They sat there with the engine off, the kind of pause that feels like a campsite—temporary, necessary, shelter enough. He turned to her, elbow on the console, fingers resting open on his knee in case she wanted them. She did. She slid her hand into his and felt his fingers curl like a reflex and a promise.
“Check in,” he said softly. “What’s your chest say now?”
She considered the space under her collarbones, the room that had been crowded. “More space,” she said slowly. “Like… like someone opened a window.”
“Good.” He watched a bead of water slip down the bottle in her hand and tap onto her thigh. “Head?”
“Foggy, but not… not siren-loud anymore.”
“Hands?”
“Warm. Less… buzzy.”
He nodded like he’d received a status report from a trusted scout. “You did that,” he said. “You called me, and then you did that.”
“We did that,” she corrected, and his smile tipped into something tender that always made her stomach trip.
They sat for another minute, breathing like regular people do: without thinking about it. When he finally turned the key and the air conditioner spun up, she let the cold lap at her face. He pulled them out of the spot like it was any Tuesday. No tires squealing this time, no clipped corners, just steady. At the exit, he reached across the console and traced his thumb over her knuckles, a slow, absent-minded circle like a prayer.
“You know there’s nothing you could interrupt that I wouldn’t want interrupted by you,” he said, not dramatic, not performative, just telling her the weather inside him. “If you call me from aisle seven, or from a meeting, or from the moon, I’m gonna answer. I’m gonna come. That’s not a burden. That’s a privilege.”
Her eyes stung in a better way. “I know,” she said, and the thing about saying it aloud was that it made it more true. “Thank you for coming fast.”
He huffed a small laugh. “Always gonna run red lights in my heart. Don’t tell the DMV.”
She laughed too, unexpected and soft, and the sound loosened something that had stayed clenched even after the breathing. She leaned her head against the window, cool glass on her temple, and watched the store recede in the side mirror. It became a small rectangle, then it was gone. Her body didn’t buzz with its ghost. She let herself believe that leaving meant something had been left.
He drove without the radio on. When they hit a long stretch with no lights, he glanced over and found her watching him, eyes clear. He lifted their joined hands and pressed his mouth to the back of her fingers, a kiss that wasn’t an apology or a flourish, just contact.
“Aisle seven,” he said, almost to himself, almost like he was naming a star. “I’ll always find you there.”
She squeezed his hand back, the pressure steady. “I know.”
And that was the ending she needed for today. Not a promise about tomorrow, just the shape of how they move: she calls, he comes, they breathe, the world returns to its right size. The rest could wait its turn.
Love your work. Could I pls request an angst/comfort/fluff for Malachi Barton? The reader is Malachi’s gf and is a little more on the thick side with stretch marks (no hate to stretch marks, I have them too). Malachi was meeting some fans after a show (the Worlds Collide Tour) and reader is next to him, getting some mean/rude comments from fans. Malachi overhears and goes into overprotective bf mode and defends her. Then later comforts her. Tysm!
It’s alright if you don’t want to write this.
Every part or you
Malachi Barton x Reader
Summary: Malachi defends you from cruel comments and later reminds you just how loved and cherished you are.
Content: Mentions of body shaming, insecurities, mild public confrontation, emotional vulnerability, and comforting physical affection.
WC: 1.5K
A/N: If you want to request anything here are my rules and who I write for
The backstage area buzzed with excitement, fans chattering, cameras clicking, and security ushering people in and out. Malachi had just wrapped up a set on the Worlds Collide Tour, and now it was meet-and-greet time. You walked beside him, heart fluttering with nerves and pride.
He reached for your hand without looking at you, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "You okay?" he asked, his voice low, meant just for you.
You nodded, forcing a smile. "Yeah. I’m fine."
Malachi gave a soft smile but didn’t let go of your hand. You knew that, underneath his calm demeanor, he was always on alert, especially when it came to you.
As you moved down the line of fans, some squealed happily at Malachi, taking selfies and exchanging words with him. You waved shyly, feeling slightly out of place. Being a little curvier than some of the other fans in the line, you had grown used to side glances or whispered comments. Usually, it didn’t bother you… but sometimes it did.
And today, apparently, was one of those days.
From a few steps behind, you heard a sneer. "Wow… she’s… really thick. Like, stretch marks everywhere. How does he even-"
Your stomach dropped. The words cut deeper than you wanted to admit, and your cheeks heated with embarrassment. You tried to shrink closer to Malachi, hoping the comment would be drowned out by the crowd. Your hands started to fidget nervously, tugging at the hem of your shirt, suddenly aware of every curve, every mark on your body.
But Malachi heard. He always heard.
His jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing toward the group of fans, though he kept a polite smile plastered for the others around him. "Excuse me," he said, his voice low but sharp enough to make the whispering stop mid-sentence. The girls turned, caught off guard by the sudden shift in energy.
"What did you just say?" he asked, his tone calm on the surface but carrying an unmistakable edge underneath.
The fan, now looking sheepish, stumbled over their words. "I-I didn’t mean-"
Malachi didn’t let them finish. He stepped closer, just enough so his presence alone felt like a shield around you. His hand came up to rest over yours, entwining fingers with yours tightly. "No. You didn’t mean for me to hear it. Don’t talk about her like that. Not her body, not her stretch marks, not anything. She’s beautiful. You understand me?"
Your eyes were wide, your heart racing. Malachi had never snapped like this in public before, and you felt both terrified and… incredibly loved.
The girl in question stammered, "I… I’m sorry…"
"Good," Malachi said firmly, his hand tightening slightly around yours. "Next time keep your, incorrect, opinions to yourself."
You felt heat creeping up your neck as he turned his attention back to you, his eyes softening immediately. "Hey," he murmured into your ear, his voice a comforting rumble, "are you okay?"
You forced a smile, shaking your head. "I’m fine," you whispered, though the tears threatening to spill said otherwise.
"No, you’re not," Malachi said, a small frown forming. He guided you a few steps away from the crowd, to a quieter hallway behind the stage. The ambient noise dimmed, replaced by the muffled echo of cheering fans from outside. Here, with no one else watching, he finally let go of the controlled calm.
"Look at me," he said, tilting your chin up gently.
Your heart was still hammering, your stomach twisting with leftover anxiety. "It’s just… people can be rude," you admitted softly, your voice cracking despite your efforts to stay composed.
He shook his head, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. "No. You’re not ‘just thick.’ You’re perfect, and anyone who can’t see that doesn’t get to speak about you. Do you hear me?"
You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks despite your best efforts. "I just… I hate that I let it get to me," you whispered.
Malachi pulled you into his arms without another word, holding you tightly. "Hey," he murmured into your hair, "you shouldn’t ever have to apologize for being you. Stretch marks, curves, everything, these are the parts of you that I love. That make you."
You buried your face in his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him grounding you. "I just feel… so exposed sometimes," you admitted, voice muffled against his shirt.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, cupping your cheeks gently. "Being seen doesn’t make you weak, baby. Being seen means people get to love the real you. And I love every inch of you. Do you understand?"
You nodded again, a sob slipping out. "I do," you whispered, feeling a little lighter in his embrace.
Malachi smiled, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Good. Because I’m not letting anyone make you feel anything less than the amazing, beautiful person you are. Not today. Not ever."
You stayed wrapped in him, letting the world fade around you. Malachi’s presence was enough to make the earlier incident feel like a distant shadow, no longer sharp or cutting.
Finally, you pulled back just enough to look at him. "Thank you," you said, your voice full of gratitude.
He kissed your lips softly, slow and steady, letting you know without words that you were safe, cherished, and adored. "You don’t have to thank me for loving you," he murmured. "Just let me."
You smiled through your tears, feeling the warmth of his love settle in your chest. No comment, no cruel word, no fleeting judgment could ever change what he saw when he looked at you.
Malachi pressed another gentle kiss to your forehead, then nuzzled into your hair. "Come on," he said. "Let’s go back out there. Hand in hand. Because you’re mine, and I want the world to know it."
As you walked back toward the crowd, he kept his hand around yours, never letting go. Every glance he gave you was a silent vow: no one would ever make you feel small while he was by your side. Fans whispered, some giving polite smiles, but the earlier sting seemed to vanish in the face of Malachi’s protective energy.
Once you returned to the line, Malachi leaned down slightly so he could whisper in your ear. "You did amazing back there. And just so you know, anyone who can’t see how incredible you are doesn’t deserve to be in our space."
You laughed softly, leaning into his side. "I think I’m going to need a long hug after this," you admitted.
"That I can give you," he said immediately, drawing you into a side hug that was almost suffocating in its warmth. "Because no one makes you feel small. Not me, not them, and not anyone else."
You rested your head on his chest, heart finally slowing, and felt the rhythm of his heartbeat. It was steady, grounding, and somehow more reassuring than anything else in the world.
Malachi kissed the top of your head again. "Let’s just take this one fan at a time. And if anyone’s rude, I’ve got your back. Always."
Later, after the meet-and-greet had quieted down, Malachi pulled you backstage again, into a room just for the crew and artists. He closed the door behind you and immediately wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him.
"You know," he said softly, brushing a thumb across your cheek, "I hate that people can make you feel insecure. It’s unfair. You’re- you’re amazing. And I want the world to see that, because it’s true."
You hugged him back, holding him tightly. "I know you mean it-it’s just…hard to hear people say those things sometimes."
"I get it," he said, pressing a kiss into your hair. "But you need to remember, you are not those words. You are everything I’ve ever dreamed of and more. Your stretch marks, your curves, your laugh, the way your nose crinkles when you smile. That’s all you, and I love it all. You don’t ever have to hide that from me."
You sighed, resting your head against his chest. "I just, I wish I could believe that about myself all the time."
"You will," he said, tilting your chin up and looking into your eyes. "And I’ll remind you every day until you do. Because you deserve to feel beautiful. And I’ll spend every second making sure you do."
He kissed your forehead, then your temple, then pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to your lips. "I love you," he whispered, his voice soft but unwavering. "Every part of you. Stretch marks, insecurities, all of it. Nothing could ever change that."
You felt tears prick at your eyes again, but this time they were tears of relief, of comfort, of knowing you were loved exactly as you were. "I love you too," you whispered back.
Malachi hugged you again, burying his face in your hair. "Come on," he murmured. "Let’s just stay like this for a while. No one else. Just you and me."
And for the first time that day, you believed it. Fully, completely. You were safe, adored, and cherished in a way that made every cruel word meaningless. With Malachi holding you like this, nothing else mattered.
Can you do a fic where the reader and the whole cast are hanging out and the reader is wearing a mini skirt and it keeps tending to rise up when she walks and there’s a group of teenage boys on the other side and Malachi sees them and sees her skirt keeps rising up and the way they keep staring at her .
Eyes on you
Malachi Barton x Reader
Summary: Your mini skirt keeps riding up while hanging out with the cast, and Malachi notices and protects you from staring boys all day.
Content: unwanted staring/objectification, mild clothing discomfort (mini skirt mishaps), protective behavior, lighthearted group banter, fluff, and a soft ending.
WC:901
A/N: This is kinda short sorry, i also realized there’s barely any dialogue 😭. If the person who requested the malachi Smau sees this that might take a while to get out cuz i’ve never don’t anything like that before🌚. If you want to request anything here are my rules and who i write for.
The morning sun spilled across the streets, golden and glaring, as you stepped out of your apartment, tugging nervously at the hem of your mini skirt. You’d chosen it for the day with the cast, playful, cute, summery, and paired it with a fitted top and sneakers. Perfect for walking, laughing, and spending the entire day outdoors. Or so you hoped.
The café where everyone had agreed to meet was already buzzing with laughter and chatter. The cast had gathered outside, spilling onto the sidewalk. Malachi leaned casually against the wall, smoothie in hand, and his smirk was in place the second he saw you.
“Finally!” he called, his voice cutting through the din. “Thought we’d have to send a search party!”
Sliding into the seat beside him, you adjusted your skirt as it shifted slightly while you crossed your legs. Malachi’s eyes flicked down briefly, taking note, before he looked back at the street, scanning without saying a word. His protective instincts were already alert.
The group erupted in chaotic conversation. Jokes, mock arguments over spilled coffee, playful nudges. You laughed along, though each movement made the skirt shift upward, tugging at it nervously every few seconds. Malachi’s gaze occasionally returned to you, subtle but unwavering, watching for any trouble.
——
Exiting the café, the streets were full of weekend energy. Vendors shouted prices, street performers played music, pedestrians wove in every direction. You stepped in the middle of the group, laughing at one of the cast’s jokes, when your attention caught movement across the street.
A group of teenage boys had stopped near a storefront. They whispered, nudged each other, and their eyes lingered far too long on you. You felt your stomach tighten as you tugged at the skirt.
Malachi noticed immediately. Without hesitation, he moved beside you, draping an arm casually over your shoulders.
“Hey,” he murmured low, just for you. “Stick with me.”
Your cheeks burned. “Oh god…”
He didn’t look away from the boys. “I got you.”
The boys exchanged awkward glances, then shuffled off. The rest of the cast naturally bunched closer, joking loudly, teasing to create a barrier, and distracting them. Malachi’s arm remained over your shoulders until the boys were completely out of sight.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you whispered once you were safe.
“Yeah, I did,” he replied. “Also, your face when you noticed them… priceless.”
“You’re an idiot ,” you muttered, lightly shoving him.
“An idiot who just saved you,” he smirked.
——
The park was next. Sunlight spilled across the green lawn. Some of the cast sprawled on blankets, others tossed frisbees, some sat snacking on food from a nearby vendor. You tried to sit cross-legged, but your skirt rode higher with every adjustment. Malachi, ever observant, dropped his hoodie across your lap.
“Problem solved,” he said casually, though his eyes continued scanning the crowd.
You looked at him incredulously. “Did you just-?”
“Yup,” he replied, smirking.
The group’s chaos continued around you: frisbees flew, snacks disappeared in mock thievery, laughter filled the air. Every time the skirt shifted, Malachi subtly adjusted, shielding you without anyone noticing.
Later, the breeze picked up, tugging at your skirt as you chased a frisbee. You barely caught it in time, tugging at your hem frantically. Malachi caught your gaze and gave you a teasing smirk.
“Need a hand?” he asked, though it was more of a statement than a question.
“Yes!” you groaned, cheeks heating.
He offered his arm to steady you as you laughed, fingers brushing yours, and the moment felt both protective and intimate.
——
Heading toward the arcade, neon lights splashed pink and blue across the street. You approached a claw machine, determined to win a plush toy. Two older boys nearby clearly stared at you, smirking. Malachi noticed instantly.
He leaned against your machine, brushing shoulders with you. “Need backup?”
“Yes,” you groaned. “In the form of actually winning this thing.”
Within moments, he expertly snagged the toy and handed it to you. The older boys’ attention immediately shifted as they realized approaching would mean dealing with him.
“You’re my bodyguard and claw machine champion?” you teased, holding the plush to your chest.
“Exactly,” he replied, smirk tugging at his lips.
——
Walking to the food court, the skirt caught on gusts of wind, brushing crowds repeatedly. Each time, Malachi noticed immediately. Sometimes he draped his hoodie over your lap; other times he subtly positioned himself in front of someone staring too long. The cast teased him endlessly, but he stayed unwaveringly protective.
At one point, a boy accidentally brushed past your side, causing your skirt to hitch dangerously high. Malachi shifted instantly, shielding you, muttering, “Careful.” Your cheeks burned, but the comfort of his presence was undeniable.
By evening, the group lingered under neon lights outside the food court. The laughter of your friends bounced off wet pavements as you held the stuffed toy. You reflected on the day, the skirt incidents, the boys staring, Malachi’s constant watchful presence, the playful chaos of the cast.
He leaned close, voice soft. “You don’t have to wait for me to notice. If you’re uncomfortable, just tell me. I’ll handle it.”
“Thanks,” you whispered.
“Anytime,” he said. “But maybe next time… rethink the mini skirt. You’re giving me heart attacks.”
You laughed, nudging him. “Dramatic.”
“Maybe,” he said, smirk tugging at his lips. “But you like it.”
Can you do a one shot where the wife is avoiding her husband after her parents anniversary dinner due to the way her family where speaking to her in a demeaning condescending manner and making back handed compliments and insulting her and she’s mad at him because he’s being protective of her but that’s her normal to her coz that’s her family
Roman reigns x Rihanna 🫶🏽🫶🏽
Shielded by you
Roman Reigns x Rihanna
Summary: After a painful family dinner, Rhianna calls the insults “normal,” but Roman refuses to let her believe that love means shrinking herself.
Content: Family emotional manipulation, belittling/backhanded comments, gaslighting, themes of low self-worth, confrontation, emotional vulnerability, protective partner, crying, comfort, reaffirmations of love, and tender intimacy (non-sexual).
WC: 1.2k
A/N: I think the photo i chose is very fitting😛. If you want to request something here are my rules and who i write for
The car hummed softly as the city lights passed, but inside, silence pressed heavy between them.
Rhianna kept her gaze fixed on the window, her hands folded tight in her lap. She could already picture the evening ahead. The polished smiles, the backhanded compliments, the laughter that always carried an edge sharp enough to draw blood.
Roman glanced at her from the driver’s seat, his profile carved in quiet strength, his hand loose on the wheel. To anyone else, he looked perfectly calm. But she knew him. The set of his jaw, the slight tick in his temple, he was watching her, waiting for the cracks.
“You’ve barely said a word,” he said finally, his voice low, like gravel smoothed by velvet.
“I’m fine.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Fine?”
Her lips curved in a practiced smile. “It’s just a dinner. My parents’ anniversary. We’ve done this a hundred times.”
Roman hummed, unconvinced. He didn’t press, but when his hand left the wheel to cover hers, she let him, holding on for a moment longer than she meant to. Because deep down, she wasn’t fine. She never was on nights like this.
——
The private dining room was beautiful, bathed in golden light from the chandelier, roses arranged down the center of the long table. Waiters poured champagne, and the air buzzed with chatter. It should have felt warm. Safe.
But to Rhianna, it was the same battlefield, dressed up in finery.
Roman pulled out her chair, his hand brushing her shoulder as she sat. His presence filled the room even before he said a word, his dark eyes scanning, protective. She took comfort in it, though she knew comfort never lasted long here.
Her mother clinked her glass for attention, beaming. “Thirty-five years,” she said, smiling at her husband. “Thirty-five years married, raising a family, building a home. That’s what matters. The real things.”
Rhianna’s stomach tightened at the word. Real. The implication always hung there: what she did, who she was, wasn’t.
But she smiled anyway. “You set a beautiful example for us, Mom.”
Her sister leaned in, her smirk sharp. “So, Rhianna, how’s the… little job going? What do you call it again? Social media something? Must be fun, scrolling on your phone all day.”
Laughter rippled around the table.
Rhianna smoothed her napkin, her smile unshaken. “Singer/Songwriter. I write my own music, spend hours recording them, that kind of thing-”
“Oh, right, right,” her aunt cut in with a flick of her hand. “Not exactly a career, but at least it keeps you busy.”
More laughter.
Roman’s thumb pressed into her thigh beneath the table, the warmth of his hand steady, but she felt the tension in it. His jaw ticked. He said nothing. Not yet.
Her father leaned forward, his voice booming. “You’re lucky Roman’s got a good job. Takes the pressure off you, huh? Back in my day, a man carried the weight. Wife kept herself entertained.”
The table laughed louder this time.
Rhianna swallowed the burn in her throat. “I think I hold my own, Dad.”
Her mother chuckled, patting her hand with faux sweetness. “Oh, honey, don’t get defensive. You’ve always been sensitive. We’re just teasing. You know how we are.”
Yes. She knew. Teasing. Always teasing. Tiny little blades, dressed in sugar, slipped into her ribs. And she’d been trained since childhood to smile through it.
But Roman’s silence was thunderous. She could feel him about to break.
When her brother leaned back with a smirk and muttered, “Spoiled modern women, always needing validation,” that was it.
Roman leaned forward, his voice quiet but commanding enough to slice through every laugh. “Funny. I don’t hear teasing.”
The room stilled.
Her uncle forced a laugh. “Oh, the big guy’s got jokes.”
Roman’s face didn’t move. His arm draped over the back of Rhianna’s chair, pulling her subtly closer. “Not a joke. My wife is brilliant. She’s built her career from the ground up, and she’s damn good at it. Instead of celebrating her, you cut her down. That’s not teasing. That’s disrespect.”
Forks clinked against plates. Her sister looked away. Her father’s smile faltered.
“We don’t mean anything by it,” he muttered. “She knows that.”
Roman’s gaze burned steady. “And that’s the problem. You’ve said it so much she believes it. She thinks this is normal. But it’s not.”
Rhianna’s heart pounded. “Roman,” she whispered, her cheeks burning. But his arm stayed around her, unyielding.
The rest of the meal dragged, awkward and stilted. Conversation stumbled forward, but no one dared cross Roman again. He didn’t say another word, but his arm stayed firmly around her, his hand brushing hers whenever she stiffened at another subtle jab. He was a wall. A storm. And she both loved him and wanted to scream at him for it.
——
The car ride home was suffocating. She stared out the window, heat bubbling under her skin, her pulse racing. Roman drove in silence, his jaw tight.
As soon as they walked through the door, she snapped. “You didn’t have to do that.”
Roman hung his jacket over the couch. His voice was calm. Too calm. “Yes. I did.”
She spun on him. “No, you didn’t! That’s just how they are, Roman. That’s my family. It’s normal.”
His eyes softened, but his voice was sharp. “Normal? Sitting there while they break you down with every word?”
“What do you want me to do?” she cried, her voice cracking. “Yell at them? Prove them right that I’m too sensitive? I’ve lived with this my whole life. Smiling through it is how I survive.”
His composure cracked. His voice broke around the edges. “Surviving isn’t living, Rhi. And it kills me. Kills me to watch the woman I love most shrink herself for their approval.”
Her throat closed, tears threatening.
Roman stepped closer, cupping her face in his big hand. His thumb brushed her cheek, his eyes glassy now. “You don’t see yourself the way I do. I see brilliance. I see strength. I see the woman who made me believe in love again. And then I watch you sit there and let them make you feel small. Do you know what that does to me?”
Her lip trembled. “I don’t know how not to let them. I don’t know anything else.”
His forehead pressed to hers, his voice ragged. “Then let me show you. Let me fight with you until you believe you’re worth fighting for. Please, baby, don’t be mad at me for loving you too much to stay quiet. I can’t-” His voice broke, and his chest shook as he held her. “I can’t sit there and watch the love of my life believe she deserves that. It’s breaking me.”
The sight of him, him, Roman, the mountain, the unshakable force, with tears in his eyes broke her open. She collapsed against him, sobbing into his chest. He wrapped her up, holding her so tight it was as if he could shield her from every cruel word she’d ever heard.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered into her hair, his voice thick. “I’ve got you, baby. Always. You’ll never face them alone again.”
And for the first time after one of those family dinners, she didn’t feel small. She didn’t feel weak.
She felt safe. She felt seen. She felt loved so deeply it terrified her, and healed her, all at once.
Maybe, she thought through the tears soaking his shirt, maybe it was time to believe she deserved more than “normal.”
Heyyy, I was wondering if you could do one where the readers is using like gaming phases/terms while Malachi is playing video games and he’s like “how do you know what that is” and she tells him that she’s been hanging out with MK Recently and they’ve been playing the game ( mind you this is one of Malachi’s favorite game) and he gets jealous because he’s been asking her for years/months if she can play with him but she always says no. (idk if you get what I’m saying or not)
Outplayed
Malachi Barton x Reader
Summary: Malachi gets jealous when he finds out you’ve been gaming with MK instead of him.
Content: jealousy, playful competitiveness, gamer slang, and light romantic tension/fluff.
WC: 1.2k
A/N: if you want to request anything here are my rules and who i write for
The living room was buzzing with the familiar soundtrack of gunfire, explosions, and Malachi’s occasional frustrated groans. You were curled up sideways on the couch with your phone, glancing at him every now and then. He was perched on the edge of the cushion, controller clenched, lips pressed together in that way that always gave away just how serious he was about a game.
It was a normal Friday night ritual. Malachi gaming, you hanging around. Except tonight, when his character got wiped early, something slipped out of your mouth before you even realized.
“You’re camping too hard in that corner. Of course they’re gonna third-party you. And you didn’t plate up before you pushed, rookie mistake.”
Silence.
Malachi’s controller clattered into his lap. He twisted around slowly, eyes wide like you’d just confessed to a crime. “...What did you just say?”
You blinked at him innocently. “What? You didn’t plate up.”
His eyes narrowed. “No, no, no. Since when do you even know what plating up is? Or third-partying? You don’t even like this game.”
You tried to bite back a smile. “Maybe I know more than you think.”
He sat back, jaw working, then leaned forward again. “Alright, spill. Who’s been teaching you? Because you didn’t just wake up speaking fluent gamer.”
Your fingers twisted in the edge of your hoodie. “...MK.”
The name landed like a grenade.
“MK?” Malachi practically shouted. “As in Mkennon Knife MK? The guy who plays vargas in Zombies 4? That MK?!”
“Yeah.” You winced. “We’ve been hanging out after rehearsals. He convinced me to play a few matches. He’s actually a really good teacher-”
“Oh my god.” Malachi shot up, pacing in front of the TV with his hands in his hair. “This is insane. I’ve been asking you for months-months, Y/N, to play with me. Begging. And every time, you’re like, ‘No, Mal, I don’t like video games, they’re boring.’ But MK bats his eyelashes once and suddenly you’re out here speaking my language?”
“Mal-”
“No, don’t ‘Mal’ me. This-this was supposed to be our thing. I wanted to be your coach. I wanted us to be the duo. But nooo, instead you’re running sweaty strats with Mkennon freaking Knife while I’m stuck dying in solos.”
He flopped back onto the couch, dramatic as ever, pressing a hand to his forehead like the betrayal was physically painful. You couldn’t help it, you burst out laughing.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m betrayed,” he corrected flatly. “By my own girlfriend. In my own house. On my own console.”
Rolling your eyes, you slid closer and nudged him with your shoulder. “Relax, I only learned so I wouldn’t embarrass myself when I finally played with you.”
That made him pause. He peeked at you, suspicious but hopeful. “...Wait. You’re actually saying you’ll play with me?”
You smirked. “Yeah. But don’t get too cocky, I might carry you. MK says my KD ratio’s actually decent.”
Malachi froze. Then he lunged for the second controller like a man possessed, thrusting it into your hands. “No way. Absolutely not. You are not about to come into my living room, talk about KD ratios, and act like you’re better than me. We’re settling this right now.”
——
The lobby loaded. Malachi sat forward, laser-focused. You leaned back, relaxed, hiding your grin.
“Okay,” you said, scrolling through the map. “We should drop outskirts. Safer rotation.”
Malachi scoffed. “Please. I’ve been dropping hot since before you even knew what a respawn was. We’re going in hot. End of story.”
Two minutes later, his character was downed.
You burst out laughing as you slid to revive him. “Oh my god, Mal. Instant wipe? That’s your big pro-strat?”
He groaned, hiding his face in his hands. “This is humiliating. My girlfriend’s roasting me in my own lobby.”
You shielded up and smirked. “Guess MK taught me well.”
“Don’t even say his name right now,” Malachi muttered, but there was a smile tugging at his lips.
The match went on like that. Constant banter, you surprising him with how much you knew, him trying (and failing) to prove he was still leagues ahead. When you sniped someone across the map, Malachi actually dropped his controller onto the couch.
“Okay, no. Nope. I’m done. My own girlfriend just quick-scoped like a Twitch streamer. I can’t compete with this.”
“Better step it up, Barton,” you teased, looting the box.
“That’s my loot!” he yelped, diving for the screen.
The next few matches only made things worse, for him. You clutched a round entirely on your own after he got eliminated early, and he spent the last five minutes commentating like a sports announcer, flipping between roasting you and screaming in hype when you nailed a headshot.
By the fourth match, he slumped against the cushions, utterly defeated. “Okay. Fine. You’re good. Like, scary good. But just so you know, you’re never playing with MK again.”
You laughed, leaning into him. “You’re jealous.”
“Of course I’m jealous,” he muttered, throwing an arm around your shoulders. “I’ve been begging for this forever, and MK gets it in one try? Nah. From now on, you’re my duo. End of story.”
You tilted your head up. “So what, I’m banned from MK’s squad?”
“Exactly.” He looked down at you with a crooked grin. “Besides… admit it. Playing with me is way more fun.”
You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. “Yeah, maybe a little.”
When he kissed you, the controller still balanced on your lap, you had to admit. He was right.
——
When you finally called it quits, Malachi was still buzzing with energy. You’d caught him staring at you more than once, his expression somewhere between impressed and possessive.
As you packed up the controllers, he said casually, “So… what exactly did MK teach you?”
You shrugged. “Basics. How to rotate, shield properly, loot efficiently. He made me practice aim in training mode, taught me recoil patterns-”
“Recoil patterns?!” Malachi threw his head back with a groan. “Unbelievable. He gave you the advanced lessons.”
You laughed. “Well, maybe if you’d asked nicely-”
“I did ask nicely!” he cut in, pointing at himself indignantly. “A thousand times! You just never said yes.”
You bit your lip, trying not to smile. “Maybe I just needed the right motivation.”
“Oh, I’ll give you motivation,” he muttered under his breath, grabbing the controllers and tossing them onto the coffee table. Then he leaned in close, his smirk playful but his eyes serious. “From now on, you’re learning everything from me. MK can mind his own business.”
You raised a brow. “And if I still play with him?”
Malachi narrowed his eyes, then leaned closer until his lips brushed your ear. “Then I guess I’ll just have to beat you so badly you won’t want to play with anyone else.”
Your breath hitched, but you laughed, shoving his shoulder. “You’re insane.”
“Insanely in love with my new duo partner,” he shot back smoothly.
And with that, he grabbed the controllers again. “One more round. Winner gets bragging rights for life.”
You smirked, settling back onto the couch. “Hope you’re ready to lose, Barton.”
Malachi grinned, eyes gleaming. “Oh, I’m ready. Game on.”
Can you write a one shot where the husband & wife fights dirty they know each other’s wounds and hit below the belt like really hurt each other with their words it gets to point where it’s almost physical (toxic I know 😭😭) but still crawl into bed together, backs turned, waiting for the other to give in and say “I’m sorry” first?
Roman reigns x Rihanna
The cut that always bleeds
Roman Reigns x Rhianna
Summary: After a brutal fight, Roman and Rihanna lie in bed, backs turned, waiting for the first “I’m sorry.”
Content: angst, toxic relationship dynamics, heated arguments, verbal conflict, emotional manipulation, references to unhealthy communication patterns, and below-the-belt fighting between partners, eventual fluff(ish). It may be triggering for readers sensitive to themes of marital conflict, emotional wounds, and toxic love. Proceed with caution⚠️
WC: 4.3k
A/N: This is the longest fic i’ve written i’m proud of myself😛 Didn’t know what to title it but that verse from the song is fitting. If you want to request anything here are my rules and who I write for
The house was too clean for a fight like this.
Glass balustrades that cut the stairwell into perfect angles, polished stone catching the Los Angeles moon like it was trying to prove something. The kind of house that made you whisper without knowing why, the kind with faucets that sang and doors that swung closed on a sigh. The kind of house that looked like wealth should mean peace.
Roman shouldered the front door and let it meet the jamb hard enough to make the framed platinum discs hum on the hallway wall. He didn’t even flinch. He dropped his duffel with a thud and rolled his neck like he’d just gone twelve minutes in the ring and the crowd was still chanting a name he wasn’t sure belonged to him anymore.
“Late,” Rihanna said from the kitchen, not looking up from the knife cutting a lemon to needles. “Again.”
There it was. No hello. No how’d you land. No I missed you. Just a single syllable thrown like a stone at still water.
Roman’s mouth ticked. “Plane taxied forever.” He toed the duffel aside. “Traffic.”
“Hmm,” she said, the sound soft and mean. “It’s wild how traffic only finds you.”
He stepped into the kitchen, took the other side of the island. She was lit by the under-cabinet glow, cheekbones like polished armor, nails red as the cut fruit’s pulp. She didn’t look tired; she looked edged.
“I said I’d be late,” he tried.
“You texted an airplane emoji,” she said, finally pulling her eyes to him. “I’m not a crowd sign, Roman. Use words.”
He opened his hands. “I’m here. Using words.”
“You’re here now. After the dinner. After the cameras. After I smiled until my cheeks shook and said, ‘He’ll be here any minute’ like a fool.” She slid the lemon aside. “You think because you’re strong, time bends around you.”
“Don’t,” he said, that flare in his eyes like the one he saved for the last minute of a match. “Don’t start with the cameras.”
“Why not?” She didn’t blink. “They’re the love of your life. Might as well invite them into the conversation.”
Roman’s jaw worked like he was chewing the pain. He set his palms flat on the island. “The cameras don’t hold my hand when I’m trying not to fall asleep at the wheel on the 405, Rhi.”
She hated when he called her that while he was angry; the name felt like hands around her throat. “Don’t use nicknames like you own them,” she said. “You don’t get to pull out RHI like you’re summoning a softer version of me.”
“You’re the one who wants soft?” He gave a small, bitter laugh. “Since when?”
“Since forever,” she shot back. “Since the first time you put a hand on my knee under a table and told me I didn’t have to be on, that I could just breathe near you. Remember that man? Or did the entrance music drown him?”
Beneath his shirt, everything about him tightened. “You want to keep score?” he asked quietly. “Let’s keep score.”
She arched an eyebrow. “By all means.”
“You want soft?” Roman leaned forward, arms like pillars. “Soft is me coming back from flights that land at sunrise and still making breakfast because you haven’t eaten anything but adrenaline since Tuesday. Soft is me taking every bullet the press fires when they want to know if my marriage is a brand extension, standing there with my chest out while you keep your head in the clouds. Soft is me learning to sleep in a bed that smells like your perfume and an oncoming storm, and not waking you when nightmares have me ready to fight shadows.”
She had her hands braced on the counter. “Soft is you needing to list a résumé,” she said, voice cool as the marble. “So you can hear you’re a good husband out loud.”
His eyes flashed. “Soft is you turning every argument into an album concept. You don’t talk to me, you draft.”
“Because when I talk, you block,” she said. “You counter. You no-sell everything with ‘It’s the business, baby,’ like that ends it.”
“You knew the business,” he said, heat rising. “You knew me.”
“And you knew me,” she fired back, sudden sharpness in the way she pushed the cutting board away. “You knew I would not shrink to fit inside your off days. You knew I built myself with my bare hands and a microphone and a spine, and I was not going to unbuild that for the sake of your schedule.”
They stared across polished stone and an ocean no one else could see. The lemon’s smell hung there, bright and clean and mocking.
Then, because they always knew where to hurt and it always came out hands-first before thought, he said, “Maybe if you let something in that wasn’t a beat, you’d have room for me.”
She went still, utterly still, the way a deer goes right before the gunshot. “Say it,” she whispered. “Say the quiet part.”
He swallowed. He knew the line. He could see it taped on the floor like ring boundaries. He stepped anyway. “You keep trying to make art bigger than the house you live in. I’m in this house.”
“And I’m in the songs,” she said, the words trembling. Not with tears, but with restraint. “You could be too if you stopped treating feelings like they’re chair shots.”
He barked a humorless laugh. “Feelings?” He thumped his chest twice. “Here. All the time. You just don’t like the shape of them when they’re not soundcheck-pretty.”
“What I don’t like,” she said, the first crack in her voice showing its teeth, “is that every time people ask who I am, your name climbs into my answer. Not because I put it there. Because it’s an easier headline.”
“So you’re the victim,” he said. “Again.”
“You want victim?” She let the word slice. “How about I watch you put your body through hell and you tell me you do it for us, then when I say, ‘Please, sit the tour out,’ you say, ‘You don’t tell me who I am.’ You want victim? I’m married to a man who would rather hear thirty thousand people say ‘This is awesome’ than hear me say, ‘I need you at home tonight.’”
He breathed like he was swallowing fire. “You lay that at my feet like I’m choosing strangers over you. I’m choosing the only thing that’s ever made sense before you. Wrestling makes sense. There’s a beginning and a bell and a finish. This-” he gestured between them, too broad- “you can love me at breakfast and hate me by lunch and be indifferent at dinner. I don’t know how to fight that.”
“Because you can’t script it,” she said, the faintest tremor of pity- no, of memory -crossing her face and then gone. “Because it isn’t staged.”
He shook his head once, twice, like a bull bothered by a fly that draws blood anyway. “You want ugly? Here’s ugly. You know my tells so well you weaponize them. You ask me questions when you already know the answers, just to watch me stumble, because you like to see if I’ll choose you or the thing that feeds me.”
“And you,” she said, chin lifting, “you wait until the moment I am softest, then you go for the part with the oldest bruise. You call me Rhi when you want me quiet. You praise me in public and punish me in private. You touch me in the morning like I’m a hymn and by night you’re a sermon about loyalty. You want scorecards? I keep receipts written on my ribs.”
“And I keep scars,” he said evenly. “I keep them where your silence put them.”
She flinched. It was almost imperceptible, but he saw.
They’d been here before. Not this exact argument, but in this arena: two people with so much power in their mouths and a terrifying amount of precision, knowing exactly which old wound was a soft door you could kick and go right through.
“Say what you really want to say,” Roman said, and what he meant was hurt me so I don’t have to admit i’m afraid.
She stared at him like a prophet staring at a storm and said, very softly, “Sometimes I think you love being Roman Reigns more than you love being my husband.”
He didn’t move for a long beat. Then he said, “Sometimes I think you love the idea of love more than the work of it.”
Her laugh was small and deadly. “We’re doing the work right now, baby.”
“This?” He spread his arms. “This is demolition.”
“Demo precedes renovation,” she said, and then she stepped around the island to stand closer, like they always did when things got dangerous, closing distance until breath and heat and wrong words became a shared temperature.
When they were close, they weren’t kinder. They were just louder in whispers.
He dipped his head so his mouth was at her ear. “You wanted me at your dinner. For what? So I could be a photograph you post the day after? Caption: ‘My man is home’?”
She leaned into the word man like she could break it. “No, so you could be there when that producer you don’t like started asking me to make the hook sexier with a smile. So you could watch me say no and then stare him down. So the rumor mill could chew on that instead of us.”
He exhaled a breath through his nose that almost laughed. “You needed my glare.”
“I wanted your presence,” she said, meeting his eyes now. “If I needed a glare, I have my own.”
“And if I needed love,” he said, “I have the crowd.”
The second it left, he knew. You don’t take the lowest shot just because it’s there.
She reeled like he’d palm-struck her heart. She stepped back hard enough her calf hit the cabinet. “Wow,” she said, with a puncture in it.
He reached, reflex, then stopped himself, knuckles hovering like apology could be a small bridge. “I didn’t-”
“Yeah, you did,” she said. “You chose to.”
The silence that followed moved in like a tenant. A spoon ticked in the sink just because the house needed a sound.
She recovered first, Rihanna always did. She lifted her chin, smoothed an eyebrow with her thumb like she was erasing failure from a performance. “You know what I wonder?” she said. “When you’re sixty, and your knees sing at you like violins with broken strings, will you even know how to sit still with me? Will you know how to exist without applause telling you what a good job sitting is?”
He stared at her. “When you’re sixty,” he said, “will you finally stop running every feeling through a mixing board to make it palatable? Will you let anything be raw without calling it a vibe?”
The lemon smell had gone from bright to bitter. They’d been standing so close the under-cabinet lights had painted their anger. Now they both stepped away like the lights burned.
He broke first, not in words but motion: turned, walked out. The thud of his steps up the stairs felt like punctuation.
Rihanna stood alone, palms on the counter, eyes hot but dry, the kind of dry that hurts more. She looked down at the lemon, shoved the knife through it one more time just to feel something give, then pushed away and followed.
They met again at the bedroom doorway like two combatants called back by bell.
He stripped off his shirt, tossed it at a chair and missed, muscles telling their own tired story. She went to the closet, pulled a sleep shirt over the outfit meant for flash photography and compliments that wouldn’t have meant anything anyway.
He caught her reflection in the mirror and said, “Don’t sleep in the guest room.”
She caught his in the glass and said, “I wasn’t going to.”
They climbed into the same bed from opposite edges like it mattered, backs turned, sheets pulled to different chins, both of them breathing a little too carefully, like even breath could be an admission.
Between them, the space felt like a third person, Old, cynical, patient.
He stared at the dark. The house hummed. The jet lag crawled in his bones and layered with adrenaline and loss and love all tangled like wires behind a TV nobody wants to fix.
In the quiet, his mind wandered where it always wandered when the fight burned itself into embers:
- To a hotel room three years ago, when the AC rattled and she couldn’t sleep. She’d curled into him then without asking, head on his chest, whispering that the noise sounded like rain on a different island. He’d kissed her hair and lied that he heard it too.
- To a afternoon on the back steps of this same house, where she’d taught him to slice mango the way her aunt had shown her, juice running down his wrist, both of them laughing when the knife slipped and he yelped like he’d taken a spear through the palm.
- To the night she’d lost a song she’d been building for months because the hard drive died, how she’d gone silent in that horrifying way, and he’d sat on the studio floor and handed her cords and tools until she remembered how to breathe.
He swallowed. In the dark he whispered to the ceiling, too quiet for her to hear, I don’t know how to be adored and argued with on the same day.
On her side, she watched the ghost of the city in the curtains and let her own replays run:
- Him walking into a rehearsal after flying all night, unannounced, leaning in the doorframe with that half-smile that said i’m here and I don’t have to be. I want to be.
Him, once, in the car, reaching across to cover her hand when a paparazzi bulb popped like a tiny bomb and she flinched. He didn’t say you’re safe because he knew how she hated being told; he just left his hand there until her pulse matched his.
Him, that morning before he left, on his knees at the edge of the bed, forehead against the mattress, a prayer no one heard.
She pressed her lips together. Then, because they always went to the edge, she let herself remember a different thing:
- Him last month, slamming a door while she was mid-sentence. He’d opened it quietly two minutes later. She’d said, “The slam was louder.” He’d nodded. “I know.” They’d both stared at the door like it might answer for them.
She shut her eyes. In the quiet, she mouthed I don’t know how to be invulnerable and loved at the same time.
They lay there in the thick of it until the room changed color, 1:00 a.m., 2:00, 3:00, each hour like a rung on a ladder to nowhere. Somewhere at 3:17 he shifted and the mattress told her his weight like a secret. Somewhere at 3:44 she coughed and he turned half an inch toward the sound then froze as if movement meant surrender.
At 4:02, her phone buzzed on the nightstand with a message from a number that knew better. She silenced it. At 4:05, he said her name without meaning to, barely sound, more shape.
“Rhi.”
She didn’t answer, because answering would be a treaty, and they both liked to pretend in the morning that the treaty hadn’t been signed under cover of darkness.
When morning came, it peeled them out of sleep with light rather than mercy. Roman rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling like it had cut a promo on him. Rihanna slipped out of bed on quiet feet and disappeared toward the kitchen.
Twenty minutes later he found coffee on the island, black for him, honey for her, two mugs positioned like they were making eye contact. He picked his up and held it in two hands like a prayer.
She was barefoot, hair up, face clean. No armor. He recognized the risk of it.
“You look… awake,” he tried.
“You look like you fought a ceiling fan,” she said, and it was almost a joke.
They stood there. The house tried not to breathe.
“I said something I don’t believe,” he said finally, thumb rubbing the mug’s handle. “About the crowd. About love.”
Her chin dipped. “I said something I do believe but shouldn’t have said like that,” she replied. “About you loving Roman more than you love husband. It was a wound I used like a weapon.”
He nodded slowly. “We’re good at that.”
“We’re world-class,” she said, and no one smiled.
He set the mug down with a clink that was too loud. “Last night, when I walked upstairs, I wanted you to stop me.”
“Last night, when you walked upstairs,” she said, “I wanted to let you go so I could win.”
He closed his eyes at the honesty. “We can’t keep doing that.”
She swallowed. Her throat worked. “We can,” she said, “but it’ll cost us the thing we keep pretending is unbreakable.”
He looked at her. The morning made him gentler. “Do you want to fight about wanting to fix it or do you want to fix it?”
“Fix,” she said, immediate. “But the ugly way. Not the clean way. No speeches for the brand.”
He gave a tiny nod. “Ugly then.”
They didn’t sit. Standing felt like respect. They laid terms down like cards.
“No more calling me Rhi when you want me to stop talking,” she said. “Only when you’re trying to reach me.”
“No more using the word business like a get-out-of-argument free card,” he said. “If I’m hiding behind the schedule, call me out.”
“No more disappearing into a studio for twelve hours without telling me you’re disappearing,” she said. “Not because I’m your warden. Because I’m your home.”
“No more shutting doors,” he said. He glanced toward the hallway like it might be listening. “If I need space, I’ll say, ‘I need five minutes.’ I’ll take them. Then I’ll come back.”
“No more using our public as a shield,” she said. “If we’re going to show us, it’s because we’re celebrating us, not because we’re proving us.”
His voice went lower. “No more pretending the bed is a battleground. It’s a bed.”
“And no more going below the belt,” she finished. “We know where each other’s ghosts sleep. Let them sleep.”
He breathed. “There’s one more thing.”
“Say it.”
“You get to want me here,” he said, simple. “You get to say it without worrying that it makes you small.”
She looked at him like he’d opened a window. “And you get to be tired,” she replied. “Not heroic-tired. Real tired. You get to cry in my shirt without me joking it away because jokes are my first language.”
He blinked once, hard. Then he stepped around the island and into her space. The coffee steamed between them like a truce offering.
“I’m sorry,” he said, first this time, right into her eyes where it meant the most. “For last night. For the door slam last month. For every time I picked the arena over the living room and tried to act like it was the same.”
She took a breath that seemed to loosen her shoulders. “I’m sorry,” she said, just as direct, “for weaponizing my knowledge of you. For using the unglamorous parts of you like they’re less-than. For calling you Roman when you needed to be Leati.”
He closed his eyes at his name in her mouth like that. When he opened them again, she was still there. Present. No performative flourish. The most beautiful thing he knew.
“Come here,” she added, not coy, not needy, just directive, and he obeyed because that was its own kind of worship.
They didn’t kiss like the movies would’ve asked them to. They pressed foreheads together. They breathed. He put a palm on the back of her neck where the world couldn’t see and she braced both hands on his ribs like the world’s most expensive architecture needed hers to stay up.
“I watched the dinner on a stream,” he admitted into her hair. “You looked like you wanted to leave.”
“I did,” she said. “I wanted to go home and fight with my husband on time.”
He grunted a laugh he didn’t expect. “We are sick.”
“We are,” she agreed, smiling against his collarbone. Then, softer: “We are also in love.”
He pulled back just enough to look at her. “We should see somebody,” he said, careful with it. “A therapist. Not because we’re broken. Because we keep throwing hammers at what isn’t.”
Her eyes flickered with something like relief. “You say it and I’ll put it on the calendar,” she said. “And if you bail, I will write a song so mean they’ll think it’s about three different exes.”
“I’ll be there,” he promised, and he meant it the way he meant to win, fully.
They moved through the day like people who’d nearly drowned and were testing land. She took a call and stood at the window while she said, “No, we’ll push that session,” and the old her wanted to push back against the part that said compromise is a bruise, but the new her said compromise is a braid, it’s stronger. He texted his team and typed, i’m taking a week, and when the three dots danced with managerial concern, he put the phone face down and let them dance alone.
In the afternoon, they went back to the kitchen because the kitchen was neutral ground. He cut mango badly again because rituals matter. She ate slices off the knife because they were them. He watched the yellow drip and didn’t tell her she was making a mess on the marble; she watched his knuckles and didn’t tell him to be more careful. They cleaned sticky hands at the sink like kids.
By evening, the house felt like it had exhaled. The moon put the city back in silver. They stood on the deck and let air run over them.
“Tell me something true,” she said, leaning on the railing, her profile a sentence he’d never stop reading.
“I get scared before I go out,” he said, like he was confessing theft. “Not always. More than I say.”
“What do you do?” she asked, softer.
“I imagine you in the crowd,” he said. “Mad as hell probably, because it’s loud and they’re pushing and someone is trying to film in your face. But you’re there. It’s like having a spare heartbeat. I go out with two.”
She put a hand over her chest, and he pretended not to see the shine in her eyes so she didn’t have to wipe it away. “My turn,” she said, and swallowed, then: “Sometimes I write love songs and pretend they’re not about you because I don’t want to give anyone the satisfaction. But they are. It’s all you. It’s disgusting.”
He smiled with his teeth this time, the rare one. “I know,” he said. “Your metaphors are obvious.”
She shoved him with a shoulder. “Shut up.”
They stood in comfortable hush for a while, the kind they didn’t trust last night and now could hold.
Later, when they went to bed, they got in from the same side just to undo the curse. They did not turn backs. They faced. They laid in the space that had felt like a third person and let it evaporate.
“I’m going to mess up again,” he said to the ceiling, not fatalistic, just honest. “I’ll miss a dinner.”
“I’m going to make a bridge out of a fight again,” she replied. “I’m going to write lines I wouldn’t say to your face.”
“Say them to my face,” he said, turning his head to her. “Try them on me. We’ll cut what cuts too deep.”
She turned her head too. “I’ll try.”
He reached over and palmed the air until his fingers found hers. She laced. The old liturgy.
“For the record,” he said, the line of his mouth soft, “I love being your husband more than I love being anything else.”
“For the record,” she said, a smile curving slow, “I love you more than I love the idea of us.”
In the darkness, a beat, then both at once, overlapping and sincere and finally easy:
“I’m sorry.”
They laughed at the synchronicity, not because it was cute but because it was the oldest joke love tells when it survives the night.
The house held them without judging, the walls forgetting the door slam like walls do when the morning is kinder. Outside, the city pretended not to eavesdrop. Inside, two people who knew exactly how to destroy each other chose, again, on purpose, not to.
It would flare up. Of course it would. The week would test them with small stupid things. Milk left out, a missed call, an interview quoted out of context. One day, a promoter would offer Roman a main event in a city older than his bones. One day, Rihanna would pick a beat that led her away for eighteen hours. They would fail and try and fail better.
But they had called the ghosts by name. They had told the bed what it was for. They had put down the knives without pretending knives didn’t exist.
And when it went bad again, and it would, because love isn’t a healed wound, it’s a living one, they’d remember a lemon cut to needles and mango juice on wrists and the way IM SORRY sounded like a bell at the end of a match neither of them had to win.
It was always the silence between them that held the answer. Not the glamorous declarations. Not the crowd. Not the chart. The silence, and who broke it, and how.
Tonight, both of them did. And that felt like more than a truce. It felt like a spine
