Untitled

It all started because of a stupid talisman. The innocent (but very persistent and a little annoying) young man offered it to you after hearing about how you frequently became ill and so weak that you couldn’t get out of bed some days lately. Little did he know it was because you were growing a demon’s baby inside of you. 

Sesshomaru saw the entire exchange, and naturally, it didn’t sit right with his instincts to protect you.

So could you blame him for claiming you in the woods, only a short distance from the village? Could you blame him for losing his temper? Could you blame him for trying to leave his mark on you again since human males are so ignorant to the obvious signs he left?

No, it was your fault. If you hadn’t let that village man touch you so casually.

No one touched his mate but him.

“Mine,” he growls into your neck, tongue laving over the mark behind your ear that was still healing. Perhaps he should leave another, but in a spot that no one will miss. He considers it as his mouth travels south to your collarbone, leaving kisses that involve more teeth than lips.

“Sesshomaru, please!”

A grumble of displeasure sounds from him before he pulls back, sitting up on his knees as he grabs one of your ankles and hoists your leg up high over his shoulder. “Please what? Please have mercy on you? I’ve tried that.” He pushes deeper, this time nudging your cervix. It makes you clamp your legs, well at least attempt to, but his broad frame is in the way and he easily pries them back open.

“You are stubborn,” he starts with a grip on your face, forcing you to look at him. “You are arrogant. And you are far too naive for your own good.” He hurls each comment with a hiss and rough thrust to match, unfazed as tears brim your eyes. “I shouldn’t have to watch over you everyday like a porcelain doll. Not when you can just be by my side.”

He shouldn’t have made that deal with you. Instead of allowing you to stay in the village in exchange for keeping his child, he should’ve just taken you with him. That’s what his brain, crazed with primal instincts, believed right now.

You helplessly push at his chest.

“Why do you fight me at every turn?” He takes your hands and pins them above your head in the dried leaves on the ground. You’ll smell of dirt and his scent, but he preferred that over some random male who shouldn’t even be looking in your direction.

“You’re hurting me. Be gentle!” A tear escapes but it doesn’t tug at his heartstrings one bit.

“Your actions do not warrant gentleness, little human.” His words are terse. Besides, if he were truly hurting you, you wouldn’t be relying on his name and meaningless words like ‘no’ and ‘stop’, instead you’d be using the safeword. 

So save your fake tears.

He doesn’t even slow down when your release causes you to tremble in his hold, only tightening his grip. “See, I was merciful enough to let you orgasm. But you are selfish,” he says, leaning closer so that his weight is pushing your thigh against your chest, toes curling behind his back.

“Do you want me to breed you again? Is that what you want?”

“No!”

“Then what?” His voice is loud, startling the birds nearby. When you begin to sob he finally stops his ceaseless plundering. He’s stunned with confusion. Did he truly hurt you? He needed answers, and he’s about to press for one as he wipes your tears but you offer it willingly.

“I just want you to love me!”

For the first time in his life, the demon was lost. He was unsure if his mate had gone mad with hysteria — which was not uncommon when mortals are subdued to the nature of demons.  

“I do love you.” Is this not how humans show their love? Do they not mate and consummate a child?

“This is not love Sesshumaru. I am not cattle for you to breed whenever you desire. It takes more than that to love someone.” From the way he tilts his head, he does not understand. “You have to spend time with me. Cherish me. Sex is not everything.” Instead of courting you as humans did, he skipped straight to forming a mating bond. 

A huge misstep on his part. 

He tries to process this for a moment, his golden hues never leaving yours. “Can you show me how, my little human?” It’s one of the few times there’s no malice in the words ‘little human’, he means it as a term of endearment. Not the best nickname for his lover but it’s a step in the right direction.

His hold on your slackens, and you craddle his face to ghost kisses over his sweat-glistened skin. You carve a path from his lips, up his right cheek to his forehead. He throbs inside of you, and you tell from his tense muscles that he’s holding back from ravaging you again. “You treat everything as a conquest, but love is not a battle.”

You kiss him deeply, grinding your hips against his, a silent request for him to continue. His body responds with a slow wind of his hips, as if he was carefully stoking the fire in your core this time around. The leaves are crumpled into flakes on either side of your head.

It was like he didn’t know how to properly hold you.

“You never hold my hands,” you murmur softly after breaking the kiss and sliding your palms under his, urging them to relax and intertine with your delicate fingers. Sesshomaru’s hands dwarfed yours, another reminder of the imbalance between the two of you.

“Will you stay after?”

“What?” It comes out strained and laced with confusion. All of his mental power was focused on pleasure so he couldn’t figure out what you were asking of him right now.

“Stay with me, for just a little while.”

He never stayed after making love to you. The significance of doing so was beyond him despite his experience and knowledge of how to please a woman. But to be fair, you never asked for him to stay either and given your initial refusal to remain by his side, he assumed that you wanted space. It was already bad enough that he forced this entire situation upon you so suddenly…

“Is that what you truly wish for?”

“Yes, spend time with me. Hold me for a while and promise me it’ll be okay. Do you know how lonely it is for us?” His heart cracks a little when he hears your sad tone and the mention of the small child in your womb. This might be the first time you’ve ever acknowledged its existence — albeit indirectly — since discovering you were pregnant. 

It seems you both are working through growing pains that have stemmed from this new bond. A hand returns to your face, gently cupping instead of grabbing, “Then I’ll stay. And I will bring you the spoils of my hunt in the morning.” 

“Please no more dead rabbits at my door,” you groan playfully.

“Okay, no dead rabbits then.” There’s a faint smile as he hugs you a little closer, continuing this act of coupling on the forest floor. 

slut : @sadisticslut666

The fluorescent halls of The Bellagio are a blur.

This entire night has been a blur thanks to Eden.

Your close friend had seemingly made it her life’s mission to pull you outside the entrapping four walls of your apartment for the first time after the break up that’s been suppressing the free-spirited girl she’s always known you to be. 

Close friends since college, the two of you have lived many lives together. Many of which begin when the sun goes down because, as if you two are nocturnal, you come alive at night— bar hopping in New York, hookah lounges in Toronto, girls night out in San Antonio. Pictures of you two during your escapades are sprinkled throughout both of your social media accounts dating back several years prior, accounts that blew up following the success of both of your social media influencer careers.

Those escapades came to a gradual halt when you met your ex. It was a relationship that sucked you dry and turned you into a shell of the person you used to be, and the people around you recognized it before you did despite how frail you felt because of the depleted nutrients. Nasir was the type of man who looks like the sun until the door closes and takes the light with it.. 

It started off subtle and passive. Then verbal. Until you had to start wearing Miu Miu shades in the most casual of settings. You told yourself his last transgression was the final. And it was, because you left him a month ago.

Since Eden had a front row seat to all the shit he put you through, that alone called for celebration. The fact that tonight is also Wrestlemania is just the cherry on top.

Drinks in hand, the two of you sat ringside as you watched the matches leading up to the the main event. You weren’t really familiar with the sport and since she’s been to a few of these throughout the extent of her relationship with her wrestler boyfriend, you found yourself muttering questions to her every now and then. As many as she’s been to and as often as you tend to accompany one another to entertainment events like this, this was your first one ever. Any invitation you’d be sent by her to attend regularly scheduled programs like RAW, you’d reject. 

Simply because Roman has never made you feel particularly welcome. 

His demeanor with you is notoriously cold, with conversations short and clipped like you’re the most uninteresting gnat in the room. There’s something innately menacing about him, whether it be his build or his quiet and brooding disposition, or both, that just adds insult to injury. That makes you feel like a nuisance whenever you’re in his presence. 

Eventually, you made peace with it. After all, many men aren’t fans of their girlfriend’s homegirls and you’re sure you’ve done something to rub him the wrong way somewhere along the line.

In reality, you aren’t aware of just how much he really dislikes you. How he’ll stare a while longer when she's wearing a shade of lipstick that reminds him of your signature one. How much, despite your knowledge, his guilty conscious compels him to talk down on you to Eden in your absence, as if she knows the truth in her heart and doing so is the head-start he needs to convince her otherwise. How many nights the thought of you behind his lids were the only reason he was able to reach an eye-rolling orgasm inside of his girlfriend.

If fate worked in his favor that day in Miami, it would’ve been you instead of Eden.

He had his sights set on you since you first climbed onto the yacht hosting Zilla’s small get together; the orange bikini you were spilling out of, your black curls wrapped under a silk head wrap and freely cascading past your shoulders striking enough to pull him out the conversation he was having— but you weren’t alone. You were there with a man he would later assume to be your boyfriend, a close friend of Zilla’s.

He was staring at you long enough to pick up the subtle but tense interactions between you and him throughout the day: the way he jerked at your upper arm during your secluded conversation in the cabin that Roman could slightly see through the window from where he was seated, the way your face would light up when someone would address you after you returned only for it to quickly drop once everyone looked away as if it were never real, the way this all coincidently began after you started socializing with everyone— with the men. 

The way you seemed to sink into a cocoon of your own afterwards. 

Nasir never liked it when you were too social for his liking with other men. He always felt like you needed to be seen and not heard, and sometimes even the former was pushing it.

When Eden, who he thought was just another friend of Zilla’s, approached him, he entertained her even though his eyes kept wandering past her shoulders. She was interesting enough to hold a conversation. Held a couple degrees. A real stunner. Thick where it mattered. Brown like he likes. It wasn’t until a quick surf through the Instagram account she gave him when he got home revealed that she and you were not only friends, but extremely tight if the frequency that you appeared on her feed had anything to say about it. Courtside at the Cavaliers, oversea trips to Jamaica, dinners at Nobu.

He’d never admit it if he were ever confronted, but it’s why he decided to pursue her further. Something about you had captivated him and it was the only way for him to keep you in his orbit. He had to see you again.

Initially, the friendship between you and her was his saving grace. It was the tie that bound you to him. Yet, by the time general observation made it crystal clear that you were too loyal to mess around with someone your friend had already expressed interest in, he’d already found himself in a situationship with Eden. That realization about you and the one that he was starting to develop feelings for Eden, albeit far less strong than the ones he had to pretend like he didn’t have about you, morphed their situationship into a serious relationship.

He wanted to give him and Eden a chance. 

If that meant suppressing his feelings and icing you out to keep his distance, then so be it— and it has. For two years.

The crowd makes some noise as you and Eden smile, wave, and blow a kiss at the camera that broadcasts your faces on the celebrity guest Jumbotron with a centered textbox that reads: Eden Westbrook & Tatiana Montgomery. 

When it’s time for the main event, you watch the way he manhandles grown men in the ring like they’re his kids and he’s bringing them to work with him. The loud thud of the ring mat and the cheer of the crowd bookends every brutal move between he and the name of whoever it on the receiving end of the ass whooping he’s handing out. 

His wet hair drapes around the sharp lines of his nose and jaw, the exertion of sheer force glazing his tan body in a layer of sweat. And when he retains his title after the three count, he slowly raises the belt into the air above his head, smirking as the announcer enunciates the phrase ‘and still.’ 

The victory lap is easy, relaxed. As thundering pyro erupts into the sky and past the roofless stadium, he climbs on top of the middle rope turnbuckle to bask in the glory of adoration before he pauses when your presence catches his attention. You assume he’s looking at Eden and grin at her side profile as you clap alongside the fans.

The threesome was her idea.

Once the liquor starts invading her system, Eden has a track record that precedes her— she is easily the wildest girl you’ve ever met. She outpaces you by a large gap, which was one of the things most appealing about her when you two first met. She always brings a sense of fiery spontaneity to what can be a very mundane life. So once you’re all in the section of French .95 to celebrate the win and she’s had enough 1942 Don Julio to override her good judgement, she’s dropping the inquisitive bomb onto your lap.

It isn’t something he’s ever asked her for, but it’s something she knows he’s always wanted. And if she’s honest, once she gets past a particular level of tipsy, she starts feeling really sweet and generous; generosity that stems from a pool of love the shade of magenta pink. Because she loves him and she’s proud of him. Proud of the way he’s managed to overcome the years and years of adversity in the company and came out on the other side as supreme as he is. Tonight is living proof.

Giggly and tipsy yourself, you slither behind her as she drags you over to him in the ill-lit nightclub and file this under just another one of you and her’s unruly escapades despite the fact that you’ve never done anything like this before. Thinking about nothing past the present.

Twin bitches. Twin bitches. Twin bitches hoppin off a jetskiiiiiiiiiiiii.

Roman, just as intoxicated, bends his neck down so Eden’s mouth meets his ear as Travis Scott’s ‘Topia Twins’ blares through the crowded building. 

The tone of her ‘let’s get outta here’ is suggestive, but even more so considering the fact that you two are hand in hand and you're looking up at him with those watery doe eyes of yours. He’s almost positive he’s picking up what she’s putting down, but to confirm his hunch, he cautiously glances once more at his girlfriend and she responds to it with a wordless, coy smile.

The fluorescent halls of The Bellagio are a blur as you three walk to the door of their suite, you and her in a fit of nonsensical laughter at a joke cracked on the drive over fifteen minutes ago. The beeping of the key card precedes the swing of the door open before you blindly usher in and drop all your belongings onto the room’s wooden coffee table.

A flick of one switch out of many reveals a spacious and sleek suite before engulfing the room in dim but warm light. The floor to ceiling windows provide an omniscient view of the concrete jungle of downtown Houston’s horizon as building lights illuminate the city in vertical constellations in the dark backdrop of the night.

Everyone is in the middle of peeling off of their outermost layers and throwing them onto a heap on the bedroom carpet when a small gasp is sucked out of Eden’s lungs. She glares at the phone in her hand, “shit. It’s the Uber driver. He’s said he’s circling back. I left my I.D in his car.” She snatches her skirt off the ground and quickly squeezes back into it, “okay. Um. Get comfortable, I’ll be back in ten.”

You pause slipping the spaghetti straps off your shoulder and look between her and Roman.

“—We can wait.”

“—Lemme go get it.”

She slips into her sandals and picks up the key card as she rushes towards the door, “it’s just ten minutes, get comfortable. Just… no kissing and don’t get started started without me.”

When she slips out the door, you turn back around and suddenly feel trapped in the lions den once you spot him seated on the edge of the bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. At the same time, realization sinks in; tonight marks the first time you’ll be intimate with a man other than Nasir in years. A milestone that’ll belong to Roman of all people very soon.

Lowly, “c’mere.”

You hesitate, glancing behind your shoulder at the door Eden left out before looking back at him.

He smirks like he can read your mind, “you scared?”

“We can… wait.”

“You gon stare at me for ten minutes?”

You blink at the prospect and roll your lips into your mouth. That is silly. She did encourage you to get comfortable before she left. Break the ice, perhaps. Once you muster up the courage, you slip out of your cheetah print kitten heels and prowl towards him, taking the hand he holds out for you when you’re close enough and patting on his lap with his other hand as a cue for you to straddle.

When you once again pause to look at the door as if this a boundary you aren’t meant to cross, Roman lightly tugs on your hand to gravitate your eyes back to his. “We’re just following her instructions.”

You nod, exhaling a nervous breath and climbing onto his lap on the foot of the mattress. In the blink of an eye, he slinks his hand between your bodies to grip the hemline of his tee and pull it off his torso. It’s in that moment that you take a minute to, for the first time ever, mull over how strikingly handsome he is. You’ve never looked at him in that light before, but it’s undeniable in this moment as he slips his hands underneath your dress and runs them along the warm skin of your outer thighs. 

“Why’re you so tense?”

“Huh?”

“You’re tense, Tati. As fuck.”

“Oh uh. Sorry.”

His hands sneaks past your thighs as the supple of your ass spills past the gaps of his spread fingers, each knead drenching the gusset of your thong in the arousal from your radiating core until your hips start slowly following the motion over his growing bulge. 

As under the influence as he may be, he has an inkling that doing this with you out of all people isn’t the greatest idea in the world. He knows how he feels, and how long he’s felt that way. But selfishly, he’s always wanted to know what you were like. What you feel like. What you taste like.

Nasir never deserved you. Never. He’s half a man. Roman doesn’t know the full extent of the abuse, Eden would always keep the harrowing details to herself, but from what he has heard and seen himself, he knows you’re just something that happened to fall into the lap of a hungry wolf feeding off the light in your eyes. Hell, a couple of times he and Nasir got into small scuffles over unrelated matters far less trivial that showed your ex’s a bitch that cowers under the weight of men his own size. It’d get real sticky if Roman ever found out what he was doing to you behind the privacy of closed doors.

Eyes closed at the warmth traveling from your core and spreading throughout your body at the sensation of his erection pressing perfectly against your clit, you’re taken by surprise when you feel his mouth at your throat right under your ear. He sucks little red marks onto the sensitive skin until you’re whimpering and then pulls the fabric of your dress down so the supple swells of your chest spill out for his eyes to eat.

His name is a whisper that melts into a sensual moan as he takes one into his mouth and gropes the other one. His free hand at your ass pulls your thong into a fist, tightening the pressure of the fabric against your clit. You feel him everywhere and your pussy’s making a mess.

When Eden returns, positions are assumed. He lies down on his back with her sat on his face, your warm tongue lathering his dick up from tip to base before slowly taking him to the back of throat. 

He’s big. You aren't above admitting you salivated a little when he finally stripped down for you see bare. Veiny. Thick. Big enough to guarantee a hell of a great night. Gripping his base, you suction your cheeks around him as you bob until he’s groaning into Eden. And when you finally let up and revert to running your tongue on the underside of his throbbing length as you knead his balls, he suddenly requests a switch of position.

Eden straddles and slowly slides him inside her, her hands on his lower abdomen as she rides his dick. A few inches north, you’re straddling his chest with your body faced towards her. 

You bite your bottom lip as he licks and kisses, taking your swollen pearl into his mouth and applying gentle pressures with the tip of his tongue. He pulls your hips back onto his face when the intensity changes and you try to inch away from the pleasure, followed by a sharp smack against your ass. You mewl and coo as he eats you out within an inch of your life, your wet pussy drooling all over his mouth and beard. 

Once he makes you and Eden come at the same time, she unmounts him and lies on the bed to catch her breath— only crawling over to the edge of the bed when he stands between your legs as he sheaths himself in a condom.

One of his hands pushes one of your legs to your chest, and one of hers pushing your other reminds you of her presence. You close your eyes and lie your head onto the bed as he slaps his dick against your pulsating clit, sparing Eden one last glance before he’s pushing at your entrance. 

He stares at your parted mouth with a similar expression as he stretches your tight pussy out, a few experimental thrusts of his hips warming you up. It takes a little while for you to get accustom to him, but when you do, you’re gasping and inching away from the overwhelming sparks of pleasure running through you.

He tightens his grip on the legs pushed against your chest and tugs you closer to the edge of the bed to keep you still, his thrusts making your pussy drool all over his cock despite the resistant hand that flies up to his abdomen, “that feels so good, doesn’t it? Talk to me.”

“Yes. S…so good. Oh.”

You look so pretty. You always do, but especially right now. He has half a mind to stop and take the rubber off just to make it that much better for you but as much as he’s loosing sight of the fact that his girlfriend is still present, he’s still has a light grip on reality.

You’re creaming on him. All over him. You can’t help it. Each thrust of his big dick inside you presses so deliciously against your tight walls, you can’t help it. You cry out for him and you don’t know why, “Roman.”

It becomes biological. Primal. Prey and predator.

The only sounds audible in the suite are the wet squelch of sodden skin, his grunts, and your desperate cries as he nails you to the mattress. Your arousal drips past your pussy and flows down your ass, staining the duvet underneath.

Eden, growing slightly uneasy at something she can’t put a name on just yet, pipes up, “okay wait baby, slow down.”

Her hand moves from the back of your leg to his forearm, but you interpret that as a simple cue for him to take it easy on you and that’s the last thing you want so you shake your head and shakily speak, “n-no. It’s okay.”

His voice is low and provocative as he looks down at you through hooded eyes, “don’t want me to stop hm? Wanna come all over daddy’s big dick don’t you? Say it.”

He tugs on your hand and places his mouth over three fingers, slowly sucking on them for lubrication before placing them at your clit. You get the message and start rubbing yourself in tight circles as he stuffs you full and whine, “please don’t stop. It feels so good.” 

He fucks you like that for a long while. For so long, until your eyes are rolling back and you’re squirting in light spurts with every press of his hips, your head thrown back.

You go to turn your head to check in with your friend after the minute of reprieve he gives you, but he’s slowly pressing his big cock deep inside your creamy pussy again and it renders your effort useless. You moan and grope at your supple breasts, whining when his dick catches and massages your little sweet spot. “Oh.”

“There she is. This is my pussy now.”

Neither of you two register the implication of the words he just let slip, you’re too aroused to. He’s fucking you too good to. You just mewl and take the mind-numbing pleasure coursing through your veins.

Eden, on the other hand, registers it perfectly— and it’s sobering. Her brows lightly tipped inward, she blinks twice before looking between the two of you and slightly sitting up. 

His mouth at your ankle, he grunts as your creamy pussy winds tighter and tighter around his dick in no time. He presses into you slowly. Passionately. Until he’s not thrusting at all, just pasting his hips against yours and grinding it in an up-and-down motion. 

You don’t know what to do with yourself. Your fingers grip at the sheets and look up him with a pained expression, speechless despite your dropped jaw.

He nods with exaggerated, mock compassion as the bedsprings creak. “I know. I k-know. Fuck. Give it to me. You’re right there.”

He’s so big. Everywhere. His arms. His thighs. His chest. His dick. He’s all consuming. Engulfing. Despite it, you recognize how tender he’s become with the way he’s fucking you. It’s intimate in a way it probably shouldn’t, but it feels too good and you’re way too close to intervene.

When you can’t take it anymore, you slightly nod your head to silently communicate to him that you’re coming as you wrap your legs at his back and pull his cock deeper into your wet pussy. Your head cranes back into the bed, your back forming an arch as an intense, slow, long orgasm rips through you. 

In between your sweet cries of ecstasy, he leans forward onto you, his gyrating hips stimulating your clit as his fat cock presses at your g-spot— elongating it further. “Mhmm. Taking all that dick. M’so proud of you. Fuck, love this tight little pussy.”

Eden gets up, “actually, stop.”

Roman keeps working you through your orgasm, his eyes following her off the bed. Trance broken, “what?”

“I changed my mind cause… no. Just stop.”

Floating down from your high, you look up at her from underneath him. Airy, “huh…?”

He slowly slips out of you when he registers her serious expression, his balls pulsating and nerves still on edge from his missed orgasm. 

She looks at you, her tone clipped. “Get up. Get dressed and go to your suite.”

Roman’s brow’s furrow, “Eden.”

“I said get up.”

You rise off the bed and blink, slinking your undergarments back on as they do too. Her agitation feels like a cool bucket of water to the face. It’s sobering. Clearly, she’s upset. You can’t pinpoint at exactly what because your mind is too muddled from the best orgasm you’ve ever had, but the bottom line is that your friend is upset and you had a hand in it. That’s not a good feeling.

Roman pulls his boxers up to his waist and watches you slip your dress back on. He looks at Eden, “baby, relax. Why’re you acting like that?”

She didn’t like that at all. If she’s honest, you two looked too acquainted. It looked too natural. She could feel the chemistry and it made her feel like an outsider. The shit he was saying was just the straw that broke the camel’s back. Absolutely fucking not. But she’s too aggravated to communicate that at the moment so she spits out the unpacked version of the truth, “I changed my mind. I’m not comfortable with it anymore. I want her out.”

Upset with the way she’s going about it, he goes to argue with her, but you know her. There’s no conflict resolution with her when she’s in the heat of the moment, so you roll the spaghetti straps of your dress up your arms and decide it’d be better to give her the night to cool down and discuss what happened tomorrow. You slide into your kitten heels as she crosses her arms at her chest, “it’s okay. I’ll go, it’s no issue. Whatever I did, I’m sorry. I’ll talk to you in the morning, E.”

As soon as the door closes behind you, she starts to tear up. 

Roman, as lost as ever, gets closer. “Eden…?”

“That’s my pussy? I love this pussy? What the hell is the matter with you Roman?”

He blinks when the realization that that’s what must’ve upset her dawns on him. He just got so enthralled in you that he stopped trying to control his mouth, “baby. That’s just sex talk.”

It could just be sex talk, but that paired with what she saw? What she felt? It’s not just anything and she can’t be convinced otherwise. Her nose flares, “have you two fucked before?”

His heart starts racing, “are you serious?”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“No. We’ve never fucked before. I’ve never cheated on you, Eden. What the fuck?”

She stares at him for a second before snatching the remainder of her clothes off the floor, her voice cracking. “I’m going to the other bedroom. Don’t follow me.”

He watches her leave and takes a seat on the edge of the bed, sighing. A hand runs through his hair. 

He’s never seen her this upset before. Shit, maybe he did take it too far. He just couldn’t help himself. It’s you. Who knows if he’ll ever get the opportunity to have you like that? He couldn’t pass it up. He’d regret it for the rest of his life if he did. He loves Eden, and despite the fact that your existence make it difficult to be in love with her, he cares about her deeply. You’ve just plagued him his head and his heart for so long.

Now that he’s had a taste of you, he’s more conflicted than he’s ever been.

.

Your head is throbbing.

That’s the first thing you notice when you peel your eyes open in your Bellagio suite.

Light spills in through the gaps of the lace curtains and bathes you in its warmth as you groan and stretch underneath the duvet, which leads you to your next discovery. Your thighs, too, are sore.

The reminder catapults you into last night and sinks your stomach. You and Eden have never really been at odds in the past. So naturally, her being upset with you is unsettling. In hindsight, last night going left was inevitable. You don’t know what any of you were thinking. You, as her friend, should’ve never been in the mix. Also, there wasn’t enough clear communication about boundaries. Whatever it was that pissed her off, you’re sure it could’ve been avoided if that conversation was had.

Still, that doesn’t make you feel any less horrible about any of it.

And Roman.

Fuck.

You’d be lying if you said you’re not looking at him in a different light. It’s impossible to see the neat version of a piece of paper after it’s been crumpled. Especially since he’s the first man you’ve slept with since Nasir, which is just another reason why it was a terrible idea. You’re still too vulnerable. It wasn’t smart.

You sigh and blindly pat around the bed for your phone, bringing it to your face and unlocking it. 10:11 A.M. She’s usually up at this time. You roll your lips into your mouth and open you and Eden’s conversation on iMessage, typing, deleting, and retyping the perfect message on a loop before you eventually land on the right one.

to EDEN. 🍸 still @ the bellagio. let’s talk before you fly back to L.A tonight please. love you always.

Except when you send it, your usual blue message turns green.

Sent as SMS.

You blink twice and sit up, a fold between your brows. You call her number and you get sent straight to voicemail. You exit out of your messages, go to Instagram, and type in her username.

User not found.

Solana’s glazed eyes roll back and her stomach caves inward as she arches her back off the mattress. Her fingers dig into said mattress, fisting the sheets with an unforgiving grip that’s similair to the unforgiving waves of pleasure rolling throughout her entire body.

“Roman.”

His name falling from his wife’s parted lips force Roman to rip his enchanted gaze from the motion of her big, soft breasts jutting back and forth from the intensity of his thrust to the way she writhes in visible, obvious pleasure on the bed underneath him.

It makes his dick twitch, thick pink tongue dipping from his mouth and running over his bottom lip. Makes his next thrust hit harder and dig deeper. A goal achieved when the sweet, beautiful sound of her whimpers intensify. Pleasing a woman sexually has never really been an issue for Roman. Nothing he worried about because countless experience and ratings of 10/10 across the board all but prevented any sort of insecurity in that area.

In almost all areas of his life.

But Solana has always been the exception.

From the moment she sat on his lap in that restaurant what feels like a century ago, pressed her lips together, pretty eyes dipping as she powered through nerves to issue her request, she’s been his priority.

Her pleasure has been her priority. He’s only ever wanted to make her feel good. 

Most especially in the bedroom. 

With everything she’s been through, she deserves that and everything more.

So to see her eyes clench shut, to feel her slick walls gripping his dick, and to watch the way she writhes with an insatiable hunger, it’s nothing short of fuel. A drug he can’t get enough of and would gladly overdose on if it means he can spend the rest of his life being with her like this.

Being in her like this.

His eyes flick down to where their bodies connect, his breath catching as the glimpse of his dick coated white, her cream gushing and dripping from her tight ass pussy. “Shit, baby,” he groans. “You creaming all over me.” He’s rewarded with another moan that brings about a smug smirk. “C’mon, sweetheart. You know I like words.”

She groans through a closed mouth, the scowl on her face making his smirk deepen. It’s seeing the way she shifts her hands to her chest, the arch in her back depending as her hands graze over and gently squeeze her breast, however, that make his breath hitch.

Triggers an idea.

“But you know what I like more?” Roman smooths his hands up and down her hips as her eyes flutter open, reflecting a haze of lust. She’s visibly dazed, mouth partially ajar, and dark eyebrows caving inward. 

“Ro—”

His name abruptly lost in the quick motion of him switching their positions. It’s suddenly Roman whose back is against their soft, dark sheets and the sight of his wife upward instead of downward. He glides his hand to the back of her ass, as her own plant on his chest. Not once does his dick slip out, instead still seated inside her warmth. Her eyes latch onto his. “Papi watching his pretty girl on top.”

Solana’s swollen lips—still puffy from the way they made out fiercely during foreplay that only lasted a couple of minutes before her palm was smeared with his cum as she stroked his dick to life—lift into a small smile.

She says something in Spanish as he glides his hands to the front of her, traveling up and over the folds of her stomach, her head nodding back when she starts to grind on top of him.

His pupils dilate and his jaw clenches at the feel of her nails pressing into his abs and then his own hands when she travels the length of his long arms and cages his palms against her heavy breasts. Roman finds it impossible to not buck his hips to fuck up into her, especially when the first assisted thrust makes her mouth drop open and her eyes flutter once more.

It’s also impossible to look away from her, for him to not soak in the sight that can cure and heal him on even the roughest of days. 

Like those days, more often than not, that he still can’t comprehend just how the hell they ended up with seven children in under eight years. Two sets of twins, at that. With several of said kids being only a year and some change apart in age. For a man a few years shy of fifty, even with his wife being a decade younger than him, it blows his fucking mind.

But then she does that thing she does. Like she’s doing now. Where she either willingly slides herself on top of his dick or allows him to position her to where she should never leave. Moves and gyrates sensually and slowly, sometimes leaning back just enough so his eyes travel up the slope of her thick ass body and grant him the perfect view of her glistening, fat pussy lips swallowing and dripping over his big dick while she bounces up and down. Spelling her name and claiming what will always be hers.

And he gets it.

Understands fully how and why they ended up with seven kids. 

Solana’s moans and whimpers amplify as her intensify subsides just enough to let him know she’s close. He can feel it in the way her pussy is clamping and fluttering around him. The bed rocks and trembles under the intensity of their sweet, sensual, steamy lovemaking. A silent witness to the most carnal of acts over the years.

“You gon’ come for me, pretty girl?” He’s rewarded with an enthusiastic nod of her head as he gently squeezes her big ass titties, weighing heavy in his palms despite her own braced on his thighs as she continues to ride him. “Gon’ let papi fill—”

“Mommy. Daddy. We’re bored. Can you play—”

The intensity of the scream of horror that erupts from Solana’s mouth is matched only by the way she quickly scrambles to move off of Roman who hisses a quiet, “shit” that’s easily drowned under the sound of the additional set of screams. Screams from the faces of their three oldest children who stand in the doorway with ajar mouths. 

Lina, Leya, and Tama. Eyes as wide as saucers. Lina being the one to shove her siblings out of the way as they slam the door shut.

The minute it’s closed, however, the panic doesn’t end.

It only begins.

“Roman!” She shouts from the side of the bed, face flustered, sheet covering her body sweaty body. “I thought I told you to lock the door!”

“I did!” He shouts, running a hand through his hair, damp at the roots from his exertion. “That damn Lina must have picked the fucking lock.”

“Oh my God,” she breathes, one hand over her mouth. “That didn’t just happen." He can't tell if she's talking to him, herself, or them both. Though, in all honestly, it doesn't make much of a difference. They didn’t just walk in on us having sex.”

“Pretty sure they did,” he mutters, falling back on the bed, eyes shut. His head is suddenly pounding and the neglected pressure and weight of his still fully erect dick is a pain he can’t ignore but is forced to. 

“I can’t believe this is happening.”

“It did.”

“We’ve traumatized them.”

“Sol, that’s a bit fucking dramatic.”

She gasps, one hand over her mouth. Her voice is muffled against her palm but audible, nonetheless. “They’re never going to be the same.”

“We already have them in therapy. They’ll be alright.” His shrug and perhaps dismissive comment earns him a glare that makes him roll his eyes. “Baby, come on. It’s not great, but it’s not the worse thing ever.” Surely. Surely, there are many other things he can list off the top of his head that could forever scar his children. 

This isn’t one of them. 

“But you know what does fucking suck?” She frowns, and he gestures to his lap, the outline of his big dick and wet spot where cum is smeared against the sheets stare back at them. “Being so close to feeling that pretty puss—”

“Roman.” She closes her eyes and runs her hand through her blown out hair. He can’t help the way his eyes drop to her chest, the outline of her chocolate nipples through the thin sheet making his mouth water and cock twitch. “Really?”

He shrugs once more, unsure where the issue lies, hence his blunt explanation. “We might as well finish—” Solana’s fist colliding with his bicep, however, silences him. 

“Roman!”

“What?” He cuts his eyes, running his hand down his face. What’s done is done. What harm is there in them both finding their release before they tackle the fallout this….incident will have caused. 

But it seems Solana isn’t seeing it that way. 

Her pretty eyes narrow into slits that draw his gaze away from her big ass titties he’d much rather have in his mouth right now. “Our seven and six year old children just walked in on us having sex, and all you can think about is resuming?”

Perhaps he should consider his answer before providing it, but in this moment, he can’t think of any other response than what’s provided in the most casual of tones.

“Well, yes.”

It’s the wrong answer. 

Solana punches and shoves at him once, twice, three times before she stands up from the bed, ranting in Spanish the entire time, the sound of the bathroom door slamming as he closes his eyes and curses lowly. 

“Baby, was that a no?”

“ROMAN!”

Not a word is said. The only sound that fills the Reigns family living room is the volume of the TV turned low and Dulce in the corner playing with one of her squeaky toys, turned away from the unexpected emergency family meeting.

Lina, Leya, and Tama all sit on one sofa. The oldest with her hands squeezing the edge of the sofa. Tama kicking his legs up and down. Leya holding onto her latest Build-A-Bear that Roman gifted her when he took the girls out two weekends ago so that Solana could spend time with the boys. 

Meanwhile, Solana sits next to her husband who is leaned back into the sofa with his arms crossed. A position that indicates a level of nonchalance that’s the polar opposite of his wife who is perched on the edge of the sofa, hands folded gracefully on her knees.

“Well.” She eventually clears her throat, kickstarting the conversation no parent ever wants to have. “I know….I know you guys must have questions.”

Of course they do. At seven and six, the oldest set of kids, coined the OG’s of their siblings, are never short of questions to issue to one or both parents. Leya being the exception. She’s not as vocal as her siblings, often preferring to ask hers in the form of little notes, diary entries, and whispers that follow the tug of a sleeve. 

She’s like Solana. Quiet and reserved.

Lina and Tama couldn’t be any more opposite.

The eldest boy the first to ask, continuing to kick, his eyes ever so often drifting to the TV. “What were you doing?” 

It’s only one of many questions to follow, however, as Lina purses her lips together. She reaches to push back a curl that’s just one of several to slip out of the bun she did herself this morning, wanting to try to do her hair on her own. A valiant effort with a subpar outcome. “And why were you guys naked?”

“Are all your clothes dirty, mami?” 

“Did the clothes fairy take all your clothes?”

“Is it because we’re poor now?”

“Fucking hell,” Roman curses lowly. Solana subtly shifts her right thigh into his leg, the closest thing she can do without actually shoving him in front of their children who are hitting them with a number and variety of questions they weren’t fully prepared for. Obviously. “No, we’re not poor, son.” 

“Babies.” Solana manages a small smile despite the way her stomach is in knots and has been in knots from the moment the door opened and revealed her in the midst of….riding. “Mommy and daddy…..we…..well, we were playing a game.”

Lina tilts her head to the side, and Tama frowns, as if not following. Leya is the only one who’s remained silent, allowing her siblings to be her voice as she gently caresses the lilac mane of her stuffed animal. “Is that why you were sitting on top of daddy?”

Solana feels like her body is on fire. Like she accidentally hit the heat on the thermostat this morning instead of the AC. She can only imagine how flustered and reddened her face must be.

This is a mess.

“Yes,” she manages. How? She hasn’t the slightest clue. Similar to how she’s not entirely sure how to explain said game to her children who haven’t even hit double digits yet.

“What’s the game called?”

Thankfully, a lifeline is thrown as Roman decided to enter the discussion, saving his wife from Lina’s follow-up. “It’s not for kids.”

Tama’s frown deepens at the answer, his confusion written all over his adorable face. At six, he still holds a level of baby fat. Chubby cheeks and thicker limbs with a head full of hair and the best hugs for his mama. “The game is called It’s Not For Kids?”

Roman leans forward and shakes his head. “No, I’m saying the game we were playing isn’t for kids.”

Lina tilts her head to the side. “How come?”

“We’ll tell you when you’re older.”

“How old?”

“Very old.”

“Like you?”

Roman opens his mouth, clearly to say some smart shit back to his smartass son only to quickly pivot. He looks over at his wife, his deep voice gruff and almost murmured, “don’t ask me to have no more goddamn kids.”

“Roman.”

Lina giggles. From a baby, she’s always been most entertained by Roman’s potty mouth. He’d be going off on someone over the phone as the girls sat with him in his office, in their matching bouncers, because they’ve always wanted to be by him, and she’d be smiling and babbling away. What he always feared causing them to fear him has always been the side of him that Lina especially has found most entertaining. “Daddy, you said a bad word.”

“It’s cause he’s old,” Tama supplies, leaning over and grabbing his feet as he explains to his sisters, “uncle Dwayne said old people can say bad words.” 

Lina nods with agreement, as if the explanation unlocked the part of her brain that’d temporarily forgotten such important information. “That’s why mommy doesn’t say bad words. Cause she’s not old.”

Roman, however, has shifted from one question to another, finally landing on the one that’s the most pressing following their short exchange. He frowns. “How old do ya’ll think I am?”

Tama doesn’t miss a beat answering with a straight face and utmost confidence. “105.”

Solana’s quiet gasp beside him is only partially registered as his eyes widen. “A hundred—” Roman runs his hand over his face, stroking at his beard he’s almost certain is going to be entirely white before the end of this conversation. “Both of ya’ll asses are getting taken out my will.”

“Roman!”

“What’s a will?”

“Something only you will be in, Leya,” he answers with an abundance of ease. At this point, her spot is guaranteed. Aria, Nick, Koa, and Kai as well, too. But these other two hellion children of his?

Yeah, they can be taken care of by Solana’s side of the family.

“The point here,” Solana steps in, stressing the word ‘point’ and clearly wanting to get things back on track. She reaches over, hand on his knee, smile directed towards the sources of the headache Roman can feel brewing. It started when he was so fucking close to coming all in his wife until they decided to be fucking cock blockers. “—is that mommy and daddy were doing what mommies and daddies do, and it’s not for kids, but we’re sorry that you saw us.”

Leya hugs her stuffed animal closer, deciding to break the silence she’s always comfortable sat in, even from the moment she said her first word. Roman and Solana have always said Leya rests in the quiet because she knows her twin will always fill it for her. For both of them. And God has that been the truth.

“Is that the game that makes babies?”

Still reeling from his disrespectful ass children’s ridiculous ass belief regarding his age, Roman is only somewhat paying attention to Leya's question that has Solana looking, once again, like a deer in headlights.

“Umm,” she starts, engaging in the quickest creation, navigation, and finalization of a mental pros and cons list that one can mentally conjure in such a do or die moment. “Y—yes. It—it is.” 

Tama’s face settles into a scowl that is reminiscent, once more, of his father who sits across from him wearing the same expression. A mirror. “You and daddy play the game a lot.”

“Is that why you have so many babies, mami?”

“She’s not having any more. I can tell you that much.”

“Roman, please,” Solana hisses, casting him a quick side glare and widening of her eyes that nonverbally implores some sort of request for cooperation vs sabotage. 

“But you were just playing it.”

“It doesn’t always make a baby, Lina.” Solana explains, reviving her smile and resisting the urge to elbow her unhelpful husband. “Just….sometimes.”

“Well, how do you—”

“Look,” Roman cuts in. The shift in his voice, deeper and with a hint of irritation, draws the focus of his kids and his wife. “The deal is this. When your mom and I are in the room with the door closed and especially with it locked, you guys aren’t to come in. We told you before we went upstairs we were going to be busy and to knock if you needed something.” Tama opens his mouth, hence Roman lifting his hand to silence what he already has a rebuttal for. “You guys wanted something. You didn’t need anything, and I don’t know how the hell you can get bored when we got this big ass house and there’s three of you.”

“Your dad is right, babies.” Solana sighs. She runs her thumb over Roman’s knee, adopting a perhaps gentler approach to what is an undisputed truth. “Your bothers and sisters are down for naps. I fixed you lunch not even an hour ago and made snacks. You didn’t really need us.”

“But beyond that—” Roman gestures between the terror non-twins with his index finger. “Ya’ll gotta stop with this picking the locks shit. I get that you were young when you first stated doing it and didn’t really know better, but you guys are older and should know better by now.” He focuses his gaze especially on the eldest of his unruly children. “And I know it was you who taught your brother and sister.”

More Tama than Leya being the student, because Roman has no doubt the most well behaved of his offspring has never utilized any of the criminal like behavior taught by her sister. She’s always just been an innocent bystander. An unwilling accomplice.

Confronted with a truth she can’t deny, Lina instead pouts and crosses her arms. “But I already showed Aria and Nic!“

“You what?” And just like that, Roman’s blood pressure shoots up once more. Or maybe it’s just been up since the kids walked in on them and is just reaching levels previously unknown. “They’re only 2 and 3. How the hell did you—”

“Well, don’t teach or show them any more, okay?” Solana forces a smile and lifts her hand to caress the back of Roman’s neck, fingers brushing against the soft curls and making gentle circular motions near his scalp. A small, subtle but helpful act that always helps to calm him down, which is evidently needed given these damn kids are two more questions or statements away from giving him a stroke. 

Tama is the first to fold, giving a dramatic sigh while looking at Sol. “Okay, mami.” 

“I won’t do it anymore,” Lina also concedes, shoulders dropping as Leya reaches over to take her hand, offering a small smile.

It’s a sweet gesture, but Roman is still confused. “Now why the hell couldn’t ya’ll just listen when I sa—”

A semi loud buzzing sound redirects focus and causes Solana’s hand to drop from its soothing position to lean over and grab her phone. Roman peers down as she taps her fingers quickly and pulls up a familiar screen. The app that connects to the baby monitors in all of the younger kids rooms. The inside of Nicolás room with his small body sitting up in the middle of his bed, still swaddled in his Cars themed bedding. Rubbing his eyes, his dark hair ruffled and a small frown on his face, Solana hits the volume just in time for a soft “mommy” to fill the living room.

“Nicky’s up,” she says more to the kids than her husband. Locking the phone and reaching it to Roman, she stands up, his eyes briefly shifting to the back of her ass that’s curved and sitting perfectly in her skin tight shorts. “Mommy’s gotta go check on Nicky, but you guys can ask daddy any more questions you have.”

It’s that last sentence, however, that stops Roman from licking his lips and reaching to palm his wife’s nice, round ass and instead look up at her with a shade of bewilderment. “Wait, what?”

Solana turns and leans over, pressing a kiss to his cheek, whispering quickly, “you got this, papi.”

His jaw tightens. “Sol—“

Another peck to the corner of his mouth before she’s walking out to tend to their middle son. 

That leaves just him with the eldest three.

The OG’s. 

Except the time for them bombarding him with question after question, most of which he knows he can’t answer even remotely as well as his wife, is over as he has his own question. 

“How old do you think your mom is?”

Roman is far from a stupid man. His wife being ten years his junior comes at little surprise to no one. Solana, in his opinion, has always looked a bit on the younger side. A youthful face that hasn’t changed much since the first time he laid eyes on her. Thus, he expects the guess to be on the lower end of the number spectrum.

He just couldn’t have anticipated how low.

“25.”

His jaw drops just a few inches, gaze locked between Terror Child 1 and Terror Child 2. “25?” He could see it. Sure. Again, not even forty, she’s far from old, and unlike himself, hasn’t a gray hair in sight. But it’s the large gap in age guesses that has him puzzled. 

Lina nods with a big smile. “Uncle Dwayne said you bought mommy from the mommy store because she was a sweet young thing.”

“Yeah!” Tama adds enthusiastically, sharing his own horror story that has Roman’s fingers burning and itching to call and cuss out his fucking stupid ass cousin. “And cousin Zilla said you love mommy a lot cause she’s got a gyat.” Tama frowns looking between his sisters and then Roman before ultimately shrugging with defeat. “But we don’t know what any of that means.”

“They said they'll tell us when we’re older.” Leya offers the final statement with a small, innocent smile and gentle squeeze of her sister’s hand before she hugs her stuffed animal once more.

Meanwhile, Roman is back to square one. On the verge of a stroke.

There’s so much to process. So much to digest. First things first, he’s cussing out both Dwayne and Zilla. Probably firing the latter cause what the fuck?

“So let me get this straight.” Brows caved, tossing her phone on the sofa to the side of him, Roman is all hand gestures and deep scowl as he tries to make sense of the nonsense. “You think your mom is 25, but I’m 105—”

“106,” Lina interjects. “You just had another birthday when mommy was talking.”

Tama nods, face just as serious as his voice while he clarifies as if it’s the most obvious thing, “old people grow up really faster.”

Roman closes his eyes.

These. Fucking. Kids.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, leaning back into the sofa, head back as he tries to count backwards from 10. Or 100. “Go to your rooms.”

The chorus of their giddy laughter is the backdrop to his misery. How the fuck did he end up with two such fucking nightmares of children? It’s like they spend time figuring out ways to drive him fucking mad. 

He keeps trying to tell Solana those two are gonna send him to an early grave, but she doesn’t believe him.

Bet she’ll believe it when he’s on his deathbed, and she’s holding his hand while the fucking Joker and Harley Quinn are standing at the edge of said deathbed asking when the bank closes.

Thoughts of revisiting the previously abandoned discussion of boarding school are interrupted when Roman feels movement. He snaps his head forward only to be met with Leya reaching for his arm as she climbs onto the sofa. Her stuffed animal set in the same spot where Solana previously sat. It’s the twinkle in her eyes, however, and the way she almost nervously lifts her hand to his face, that give him pause. Her small palm pressing gently against his cheek. The smile that grows as his beard no doubt tickles her before she leans over and wraps her arms around his neck. Just like that, all the tension and frustration melt away.

What’s left is the peace and calm. His hand on the small of her back as he returns her gesture when she pulls back just enough to look at him. Roman pushes her curls out of her face, seeing so much of Solana in her. Beyond just appearance. Leya inherited every bit of her mother, including Solana’s uncanny ability to soothe him on his darkest days. 

But something tugs in his chest as he stares at her. He sees those same eyes that stared back at him with innocent wonder the first time he held her. This tiny human being who he was secretly terrified of dropping or holding too tight. Not keeping his hand in the right spot to support her neck. So many concerns and worries that’ve calmed slightly but will always remain to some degree.

And it baffles him. How quickly time has passed.

Seven. Lina and Leya are now seven. 

It feels like only yesterday he and Solana were bringing the girls home for the first time, and now he can recall the way they crowded their parents when Koa and Kai were carried through the front door for the first time.

It’s fucking surreal. 

He opens his mouth to return her sentiment, the I love you, daddy she murmured in Samoan as he reflected on time that seems to be moving much too quick for his likening. 

And then the fucking deviants.

“Happy birthday, daddy!” Lina shouts happily, running into the living room and jumping on the sofa, as Leya giggles and leans into him. “You just turned 107!”

Tamasa, of course, is not far behind, instead standing before him with his head titled, tossing up and down the football that’s not that much bigger than his head with practiced ease. “Do you need a cane now?”

the first thing she thought was that she won, and that she was too spiked up on adrenaline to really process exactly what just happened.

her holding a championship belt—a world championship belt, she should have added—was one of the more surreal things for her that weekend. as attention-grabbing as it was for her, she could barely remember all of the events that transpired after. she could recall posing for the photos with the championship for social media and the website, but she couldn’t remember explicitly doing it; she recalled her mouth moving as she answered the questions in the post-show, but she didn’t think that she actually did that. the words sounded like hers, but she didn’t think it was her mouth that was moving.

wrestlemania weekend, no matter how exhilarating it was, always tended to leave her overstimulated in the bad way. she couldn’t keep track of how everything was going, even if she was certain that she was the one performing the motions. she remembered being in the audience for the second night, flexing the championship belt on her shoulder and smiling with that high fashion beam. the moment the camera pivoted to other things, she allowed that ironed grin to falter just enough, even if she couldn’t completely shut it down. she did her job well. after all, so much of wrestling to her was performing, and at the very least, she could perform attentiveness and wonder. her mind continued its cocooning while she allowed herself to continue watching the main event, even as she gasped on cue when the announce desk broke or at the false pin.

in some twisted way, she could feel herself grounding back reality as they watched the match. roman was the person she could easily track, because she was absolutely abysmal at avoiding his gaze. he was magnetic in the way that only somebody who was the main event of wrestlemania for the 11th consecutive time could be. he felt larger in life, elusive, and rightfully so. they hadn’t spoken, but she knew that her admiration of him wasn’t a well-concealed secret among the roster. she was only fortunate that nobody ever made it clear to him. not that that mattered, since roman was part-time anyways. she was certain he wasn’t even aware of her existence. that was fine with her—at least then, she wouldn’t be able to embarrass herself in front of him.

she did come to the realization that the match was veering towards the end sooner than she would have wanted it to. apparently, a thirty-minute match would not help her get back into herself; she considered that a bit foolish of her. she found security escorting her to gorilla again for more press photos now that they had all of their crowned champions for the weekend. she shook hands with everyone, smiled graciously, and posed. the only thing she hadn’t anticipated was pr telling her to stand next to roman for the photo of the new champions for monday night raw.

at first, she made an attempt to stand a respectable distance from him, enough to portray as close. “get closer,” she heard someone say. her eyes, wide and dazed, wasn’t sure if she caught that correctly. before she could react, though, his hand (an admittedly large hand she definitely hadn’t fantasized about several times in an attempt to get off after watching his title matches), tugged her by the waist, placing her right by his side. both of them raised their belts high, staring down the camera with precision and no shortage of cockiness. at least, she attempted to emulate that.

the first thing she registered was that he smelled good, even through all the sweat and exhaustion. she deciphered notes of sandalwood and something that was distinctly roman reigns. the other thing she could process was how warm he was compared to her cold skin. “overwhelming, isn’t it?” he murmured through the static of her mind and the shutter of the camera.

her answer didn’t feel as automatic as perhaps it should have been, her voice foreign to her own ears when she responded, “how do you ever get used to it?”

even when all of the press shoots were done, he kept his hand on her waist, helping the two of them make their way to the dressing rooms. he answered as they walked, “you just do. take the loud with the quiet—it gets easier over time.”

she didn’t know if she could believe him. the entire weekend wasn’t even really loud anymore, now veering into overload as he dropped her off at her room, which granted barely enough privacy to take a moment to breathe before more celebrations began.

she knew that a few glasses of champagne slid down her throat a few times throughout the evening, but not enough to warrant being any way incapacitated through alcohol. she knew that she shook her head and said something about excitement and gratitude for being given the opportunity. she knew that she was smiling. yet, she couldn’t really register that the alcohol was going down her throat, that it was her head moving, that it was her muscles contorting into that beam, that it was her feet guiding her towards the corner. she wasn’t sure if she could properly breathe, even though she rationally understood that her body was able to breathe on its own, and could handle it just fine.

“you look like you’re five seconds from tapping out to an anaconda vice,” a voice dryly remarked. naturally, she turned her head up towards the direction of the voice’s owner. she most likely couldn’t keep the shock off her face when her brain finally managed to process (however slowly) the present visual and auditory stimuli that roman reigns was addressing her. but, this time, of his own volition.

she technically felt more than properly realized that his expression shifted from amiability towards concern—more specifically, that it was her fault. her breath hitched, pondering if she did anything wrong. did she not answer fast enough? did her smile seem too off? or worse: did she make it too obvious she was into him? the hypotheticals had her lungs struggling for air. not that she could entirely register it, because one moment, she was in the corner of the room with the otc, and the next moment, he had his hand on her waist, escorting them both out to the elevator.

“let’s get you some air,” he murmured, keeping his voice that unwavering baritone as he closed the elevator door, forcibly shutting the door before anyone else could enter and overwhelm her further. once the doors closed, he cautiously pulled her in, strong arms caging her into him. his voice broke through the fog, “it’s alright. deep breath in for me, yeah?”

her lungs followed, matching his pace as the elevator rode all the way down to the resort’s car garage. every instance the elevator door opened and stopped at a floor, roman immediately pressed it shut, ensuring total privacy and external insulation for her with every shiver she gave. each descending floor granted her another breath to return to herself.

by the time the elevator reached the intended destination, she felt mostly back. she regained enough clarity to realize that she was in a parking garage, following roman reigns to his car, an admittedly nice one. her steps began trailing behind his, hesitant while he guided her to the passenger seat, opening it for her to slip into. the moment he shut the door and joined her in the driver’s seat, she closed her eyes, shuddering an exhale so large, as if she was atlas and the belt was the entire planet on her shoulder.

“fuck,” she whispered, “i’m sorry you had to leave the party ‘cause of me.”

he extended his hand, leaving his palm up for her to take if she wished. she took it, allowing his hand to dwarf hers. “don’t apologize,” he said, unrepentant about affixing that heavy gaze on her erratically panting chest, “first one’s always the one that hits the hardest.”

“didn’t want to take you from the party though,” she murmured in apology, shuffling awkwardly in her seat to evade enough of the heat of his eyes. “you deserve to celebrate.”

“got my celebration right here, babygirl.” his free hand brushed her cheek, gently tugging her face up. she couldn’t avoid the sensation of heat on her face. her eyes frantically flitted anywhere but him, though he seemed to know what she was attempting to do in the first place, because he leaned in enough to rest his forehead against hers. roman’s tone took on a more impish foundation as he mused, “you’re cute when you’re trying to be subtle.”

“i’m sorry,” she squeaked out again, “it’s unprofessional, and i know it’s probably creepy for a twenty-something to be having a crush on you. i promise i’m not a stalker or anything like that.”

roman tilted his head forward enough to rub his nose against hers, lips curled into an amused smile. “now, who said anything about stalking?” her eyes bolted wide open to that, pulling away to make some sense of his mirthful eyes.

“i mean, it’s weird, ain’t it?” she mumbled, “you’re like…a superstar. i didn’t wanna make it weird for you ‘cause you’re not always here. i didn’t wanna make it unpleasant or uncomfortable for you every time you came back.”

roman chuckled, breath fanning against her lips and retorting, “trust me, angel, i wasn’t ever uncomfortable with you staring at me.” he didn’t have to say much else then, his insistence enough for her to brush her lips against his for a tentative peck. roman deepened it, shifting his hands to tug her closer past the console.

“fuck,” she moaned against his lips, fingers brushing his beard firmly. she leaned further over the console, shifting herself on the passenger seat to rest more of her upper body against his.

he groaned, amused still, yet more fond as they continued to make out, “sweet thing, aren’t you? all soft and needy from some kissing?” her cheeks flared, though she didn’t deny it when she kissed him again, squeaking when he forcibly maneuvered over the console functioning as a barrier.

her mind blanked out from being shifted however awkwardly from the passenger seat to be on roman’s lap—at least she figured this time it was from something pleasant rather than dissociation. she squeaked as he pressed her form up against his, allowing him to take all of her weight while she straddled his hips. “fuck, you’re adorable,” he cooed against her lips.

“thank you, sir,” she responded, voice growing shriller as she realized what she just said and what she just called him. for all of her troubles, she earned a deep-bellied rumble that let her know that she probably didn’t have to stop calling him that. if anything, he was turned on, if the growing bulge pressing into her clothed heat was any indication.

“call me that again, babygirl,” he growled against her mouth, the same way he did when he demanded acknowledgement.

“yes, sir,” she repeated, earning a heavy spank on her ass, “fuck!”

roman swallowed her sounds with a guttural groan, pressing her closer. his other hand came to cup her sex through her panties, shifting the skirt of her dress up to give him better access. naturally, she ground down on it, rocking back and forth against the weight and heat of his palm. “such a good girl for me, aren’t you?” he breathed into her ear, allowing her to move her own hand down to fully grasp just how hard he was at the sight of her. she nodded, skin gently flushed from want and his attention.

tentatively, she palmed him, applying just enough pressure to not seem shy, but not being overzealous and presumptuous about how much pressure he would maybe like or want. roman responded beautifully to her touch, groaning especially husky when her finger rubbed the tip of his length, swirling the budding beads of precum around. his own hand shifted so that he could slip right through her panties; her own arousal coated his fingers in an unabashed, honeyed gloss. “sorry,” she mumbled, though she only sounded semi-repentant.

roman smirked against her skin, wetly smacking her pussy; she could only squeeze his dick harder for that. “cheeky little thing, aren’t you?” he mused mirthfully, spanking her again, “but, i can’t blame you, can i? that’s how you got that championship.”

there was a part of her that lit up embarrassingly at the mere prospect that roman reigns watched her championship match, however short it was. when she mustered more courage to look up and gauge his reaction, she could only see pride reflected in his gaze, but also an awareness that he knew she wasn’t expecting it. “of course i watched, baby,” he chided fondly, kissing her forehead and then her pout away, “wanted to see you win your first world championship—the first of many. now, up you get, ‘cause i want you sitting on my cock.”

sue her. she was eager, exuberantly eager while she shifted her hips, allowing him to remove her panties. her own fingers worked to quickly undo his pants, pushing them and his undergarments far down enough to unsheath his length. she adjusted so that his tip brushed her slit, whining pleasurably every time the mushroomed head brushed her sensitive clit. “shit,” she whispered, overstimulated, “how are you gonna fit, you’re so fucking big?”

“don’t worry, baby.” his voice was cocksure, self-assured the only way a multi-time world champion and someone completely aware of his looks and its effect on other people. he nearly knocked the breath from her lungs with his cocky smirk as he promised, “i’ll make it fit.”

in one fluid motion, he effortlessly transitioned to slipping the tip inside her gummy walls, engendering a broken moan past her lips, arguably loud enough to shatter his eardrum. roman didn’t seem to care as he gripped her hips firmly, gravity taking over to have her impaling herself onto his dick. “holy fuck,” she gasped. her lips furled into a needy pout, one roman indulged with a searing kiss to her lips, enough of a distraction for the overwhelm that was just him filling her. she shivered and pulsed when she realized that he wasn’t even entirely in yet. that caused roman to groan, an animalistic sound that sent shivers down her spine.

“such a good girl,” he growled into her mouth. his tongue swiped the roof of her mouth, absorbing her squirming and pants with relish. roman’s other hand wandered down to rub tight circles at her needy clit. naturally, her walls spasmed; naturally, he reacted accordingly by spanking her with his heavy hand. it resonated within the metal confines of the car, and her own noises immediately followed suit.

“sir, please,” her voice was wrecked, as it only could be, but still, there was a dreaminess that roman found endearing as he set the pace for her—slow, but thorough. insistent, though not forceful. he only lifted her off half of his length, keeping her full at all times. roman kept his lips on her, anywhere and everywhere he could reach. his hand continued their marking endeavors, heating her ass in rhythm with his hips.

he sounded smug as he wondered, “yeah, baby? ‘please’ what?”

her breath faltered, fingers curling to undo the neatly tied bun of his mane, raking her nails through his illustrious mane. she didn’t yank. he seemed to appreciate that she only tugged with minimal pressure. he smiled against her lips, rewarding her with a steeper bounce, pulling out so only his tip remained before impaling her again and again. any time she attempted to formulate a comprehensible word, he swallowed it with a heady kiss and smack to her asscheek, which made her forget what she wanted to say in the first place.

not that she had much he could parse to begin with other than saying “please” and “sir” like they were the only two words remaining in her lexicon. even then, she wasn’t able to even manage a syllable that simple. that was how he seemed to prefer it based on the thorough thrusts of his hips against hers.

he groaned in her mouth just right when she tugged his tresses again, twice in quick succession and one longer tug. she wasn’t sure if she could explain to him if she was close with how he kept subsuming her mewls and starts of words into his groans and grunts. at this point, she wasn’t sure if she could call what they were doing really kissing so much as a mashing of tongue and teeth. she figured he could tell she was reaching the edge to her climax through the fervent way her walls pulsed around him like a butterfly struggling to escape its cocoon.

“close, aren’t you, babygirl?” he chuckled, her nods rapid and messy. she gripped his hair firmer, more demanding now that she teetered on that edge of release.

she begged, eyes welling with unshed tears from overstimulation, “p-please, sir! wanna cum!” her lungs gasped for oxygen when he delivered on her request, transitioning into thrusting more calculatedly, angling right up at the spot that had her seeing stars.

“right there, baby?” he murmured, repeating that particular thrust. her frame vibrated atop his lap as her climax washed over in unceremonious, reckless fashion. she wailed, throat ripping itself out from the weight of her scream. roman didn’t take that much more to follow after her, spilling those pearlescent ribbons deep inside her cunt with a deep roar briefly reminiscent of the ones preluding his spear. “fuck, you’re such a good girl,” he praised heavily, “sweetest fucking pussy for me.”

he continued thrusting through the aftershocks, arms firmly locked around her while she vibrated in his arms. “i got you, honey,” roman promised, kissing the side of her head while he tempered his pistoning down. he kept her on his lap, letting her tug on his hair enough to anchor her to this plane of existence. her breath fanned against his lips as she stole a kiss from him. he didn’t say much other than repeating his promise, forcing her lungs to follow his cadence until she could do it on her own.

when she did recover, she whispered, “sir,” her voice cracked at the edges from practically screaming herself hoarse.

“you did so good for me, baby. i’m so proud of you.” he punctuated his praise with a kiss to her hairline, not minding the sweat pearling there from exertion. from how he looked at her, how he sounded, she knew he meant it. she smiled, the first one she could feel from the past two days—she knew his pride went beyond her performance on his lap and extended to the two belts stacked atop one another in the backseat.

“thank you,” she responded with a shy heat to her cheeks. her hand moved away from his hair, resting on his heart while her fingers twirled some strands of his hair. roman smiled, one of the softer ones he reserved for his family, mainly. she flushed at the honor of being one of its recipients.

she gasped when he shifted just enough to start the car, accidentally shifting her hips to roll just right against his own. he groaned, sending her a raised eyebrow and barely contained mirth in his eyes. she shrugged, semi-apologetic. roman merely adjusted her positioning so they were both more comfortable as he started reversing out of the parking space and out into the vibrant vegas streets.

“you’re crazy,” she murmured, breathless as she glimpsed outside the window, allowing the oversaturated nightlife to consume her vision while he drove them both back to the hotel.

“yeah, well,” roman responded with the assurance of a champion, of being her champion, “i’m the tribal chief.” he said it like it was simple.

maybe it was to him. her thoughts, naturally, swirled around to the aftermath and to what monday would bring. New challengers, new threats, the inevitable paranoia—she wasn’t sure where she would stand as the weight of the belt grew more prominent on her shoulder, the responsibility chipping at the wide-eyed woman who only ever dreamt of carrying something as prestigious as the women's world championship. as if that wasn’t enough, her mind fabricated worst-case hypotheticals about their nebulous relationship given her feelings and how roman reciprocated, apparently. she wouldn’t be able to look at him without thinking of the mindblowing and grounding sex they had after wrestlemania. She didn’t factor that he would be there more frequently now, either. She could easily visualize the inevitable wetness growing at every instance. To make matters worse, she wasn’t sure what he wanted beyond just the celebratory sex, on the minuscule chance he would change his mind. or—worse—if he only did it out of pity.

before she could fret herself into the next century, roman cut her spiral short with a firm remark, eyes focused on the road, “don’t worry about tomorrow, baby.” at the red light, he tilted her chin towards him with a thumb and index finger. “just focus on me, alright? i got you. i promise. i’m not going anywhere.”

it suddenly struck her that he perhaps meant it beyond just trying to tether her back into her own body at this point, even if that intention still stood. her eyes peered up at his features as he returned to focusing on the road, applying gradual acceleration on the pedal as the car continued along the route. she parsed the relaxation in his posture, paired with the understated confidence that things would work out in their favor. her eyes flitted back to the two belts, resting like a perfect match, a picturesque display of harmony.

shifting just a little more, she rested her head along his heart, listening to his heartbeat while her own rammed at full throttle in anticipation of what the future brought her. starting with, naturally, the growing hardness still inside her.

The metallic, melodic jingle of door chimes over Bob Marley’s Is This Love alerts you of the arrival of a new customer.

Preoccupied with a cup of cool, fresh fruit behind the counter of the empty surf shack, you quickly drop the plastic fork back in the container and tuck the snack under the surface in preparation to assist Sunburnt’s visitor. You’re wiping the condensation dripping off your fingers on the skin of your outer thighs just under your denim shorts when you suddenly pause, straightening up a little when you realize who it is.

It’s a greeting and a question, “Mia.”

She’s not looking at you, but she offers you a tight lipped smile as she curiously glances around the shop she’s never been inside before. “Hi.”

“Can I… help you with something?”

She finally peels her eyes away from scoping out your humble little spot and approaches you at the counter, disregarding your question entirely, “how’ve you been?”

You blink a few times, your guard rising as it often does around her but even more so now considering you now know what she fed you the last time you two spoke was a lie that fueled a heated blow-up between you and Roman. A lie that, in hindsight, exposed some wounds that you thought were healed. Some bruises on your skin that still hurt if you press hard enough. 

How’ve you been?

If she were your therapist, you’d tell her you’d started avoiding that intersection again. That those dreams you’ve had since the miscarriage of that infant in the flower field have been increasing in frequency, only now the sky fades from a bright blue to a gloomy grey to open the gates for a sudden downpour; the flowers wilt, it gets windy, and it’s suddenly night. The field is absent of any cars but like clockwork, you wake with a jolt in the middle of the night at the blare of a horn and the blinding glare of headlights.

It’s gotten so bad, Roman’s taken note of it on the nights you allow him to stay over.

Each time it happens, he hesitates on how to properly comfort you. It’s not in his toolkit, but he tries nonetheless. He tells you how it was just a nightmare in a mutter and presses you back into his chest until his grounding embrace stabilizes your galloping heart rate to a pace as serene as the ocean water lapping onto the shore just outside the windows. In the rare instances that it isn’t enough, now that she’s old enough, he scoops a sleepy Lorelei out of her crib and nestles her in between the two of you in your bed and it almost always does the trick. The feel of her, the smell of her.

His concerns about leaving you on your own during this rough patch, despite your adamant stance that you’re fine and everything’s okay, results in the private jet sent to fly you out to attend Wrestlemania 37 weekend.

A low-quality video due to distance taken by a fan from down below captures you up above through the glass of one of the stadium’s suites with Lorelei on your hip as you watch his match, a pair of noise-cancelling headphones hugging her ears in what would be the public’s first ever sighting of your daughter.

You two make sure to keep a tight lid on what you share with the public. Ever since the dilemma with Anastasia, Mia, and the Italy trip, you find yourself holding the things you cherish far closer to your chest than you used to. Which, in tandem with Roman’s strict rule that the less the public sees of her face the less she’ll be recognized and approached, leads to a plethora of strategic measures whenever you’re outside of safe confinements of Key West: top shelf security, the best chauffeurs money can buy that have the most efficient entrances and exits to hotels and restaurants memorized by heart to bar paparazzi, and carefully curated private social media accounts that consists strictly of your close friends and family.

You couldn’t care less, but this is a professional establishment and that’s the manner in which you’ll keep it, “I’m fine. How are you?”

How is she?

If you were her therapist, she’d tell you she’s hanging on by a thread. A thread that stretches thinner and thinner, threatening to snap with every invasive memory of the live recording she received of you two on the security system before she slammed the laptop shut with shaky fingers.

He’d been telling her to stop making something out of nothing for so long, that nothing’s going on between you and him. That the reason she even keeps bringing up this feeling she has that something’s going on is just her wanting to start shit because she loves drama. She’s being crazy and insecure. That you were never like this.

A cheap shot that accomplishes exactly what he wants in the moment— resolution. 

You’re not acting like Capri. Act like Capri.

It’s sick and twisted that since he always deprives her of his attention after she questions him and showers her with it when she treats him like she never did, she subconsciously equates being tolerant to earning his love. 

Her friends tell her that he doesn’t deserve her, but they don’t know him like she does. They don’t know that the lows might be low, but the highs are so high, it makes everything worthwhile; the tears as he sleeps, the solitude as he’s out doing whatever at whatever ungodly hour. 

Because when it’s good and he’s at his best, which incidentally are the times you’re paying him dust, he waters her like she’s the world’s last standing flower. Like an endangered national treasure; such expensive gifts, the time she asks for, earth-shattering orgasms that do nothing but sink her deeper into this bottomless pit. It keeps her under his hypnosis.

Maybe she’d have it within herself to crawl out of it with her dignity still intact if only she received a sliver of attention in her integral adolescence. If her father spent more time with her and less time dominating the company to put the family on the map, all while her mother was busy developing an expensive addiction to cope with his infidelity on the road.

Growing up with everything she could ever materially want but none of what she emotionally needed makes it difficult to peel her fingers away from the thorns that draw blood. He’s a shiny toy that she’ll have by any mean necessary because all she’s ever used to is getting her way.

Now that she’s seen the footage, she sees there’s just one thing standing in it.

You.

Mia shrugs mindlessly, “could be better. It’s why I came by, actually. I wanted to talk to you about something.”

You remain silent, waiting for her to continue as your sight follows the phone she pulls from her back pocket.

“Scratch that. I wanted to show you something.”

You assume she’s here to perhaps pick up some items on Roman’s behalf. Maybe show you a picture of the brand of sex wax he uses for his board that he may be running low on. You were not prepared for the video of Roman doing you in on the sofa that plays when she turns her phone around to face you. 

A slow, deep sense of violation settles within you, immediately followed by inklings of burning shame and the embarrassment of getting caught red-handed.

The second you purse your lips to try and form a syllable, she simply shakes her head, shutting you up and sliding the phone back into her pocket. “I’ve tried to be as civil as possible with you. I really, really have. But at this point, I feel like my kindness is being taken for weakness. I love him… and I want us to work. I just needed you to let us, and now I know you will.”

You’re lost, but she keeps going. 

“You will. Because if you don’t, I’m sending that tape to my team and they’re gonna leak it to any and every publication that’ll listen. TMZ would drop a bag for that but I might just do it for free the way you’ve been playing with me. It’ll globetrot overnight. You don’t want that, because what will your daughter think of her mom when she gets older and realizes this little tape is what her mother is known for? Imagine how the other kids will treat her.”

Your body heats up impossibly hot, your brows pulling tight over your eyes at the threat of such an intimate video being leaked if you don’t cut off what you and Roman have going on. “Are you serious?”

To keep up the facade that she’s none the wiser, she hadn’t mentioned a peep to Roman. You cutting him off after she confronted him about what she saw would be to much of a tell for him to believe you came to that conclusion on your own. She’d told him she was leaving for an out-of-town meeting with some investors for the athleisure brand she’s been building but flew to Dallas to her family’s empty estate a few days after she saw the footage. There, she had the freedom to really feel the extent of her emotions, to let it out. And, to plot.

This solves everyone’s problem. It’ll stop all of this unhealthy back and forth and help everyone finally move on, all while getting you out the picture. Once and for all. She shakes her head and almost sounds earnest, “I really didn’t want it to come to this, I’m sorry.”

You’re speechless as your eyes dart all over her features. She definitely has the means to do so. Her connections in Hollywood run deep. The video is clear enough to reveal both of your identities and he’s too big of a star for the tabloids to pay the story dust. His status as a sex symbol doesn’t help one bit and that’s not even mentioning the salacious nature of the tape. Rumored to be in a longtime relationship and he’s caught fucking his baby mother on camera? It would run the numbers up.

Once you get the sense that you’re in between a rock and a hard place, you poke holes in her logic to persuade her into reconsidering this entire ploy. “How am I supposed to… he’s not gonna just let it end.”

“He’s not holding a gun to your head. This doesn’t happen if the door is completely closed. Close the door. Completely. Come up with a reason and make it believable.” She plucks a tiny license plate key chain off the small rotator of trinkets for tourists on the counter, tosses a crisp ten dollar bill on the counter, and makes her way out. 

The sun reflects off the glass door as Mia pulls it open before she turns toward you one final time, “and if by some chance any of this gets back to him, I’m pressing that red button. Do what’s right.”

.

“Finish your cup.”

Summer’s in full effect and the air conditioning in the parlor is a godsend compared to the smothering humidity outside today. After a long walk on the beach with a waddling Lorelei between you, Roman decided it’s been a while since the last time he’d taken you two to get some ice cream. 

Across the booth from him with Lorelei at the end in a highchair, you poke and prod at the frozen swells in your bowl with your spoon, “I don’t like it.”

His low voice rumbles as your baby smacks on her tiny portion, “you love salted caramel.”

He stares at you when you don't say anything and sighs before swapping your cup with his. He hates salted caramel.

It’s difficult for you to pretend like Mia’s ultimatum hasn’t been silently weighing on your shoulders. It’s even more so to pretend like everything will ever be the same again between you and the man you’re sitting before after this. You just know it.

She put you in an impossible position.

If you don’t slam the door on this, you’ll be exposed on film to the entire world in a misogynistic society that’s primed to lunge and disparage any woman that dares to participate in the act of sex while sparing nothing but energized pats on the shoulder of the man involved.

If you do slam the door on this, you will lose the love of your life— which is equally as devastating, if not more. 

The only thing that tips the scale is the fact that it’s not just about you anymore. It hasn’t been since the day you found out you were pregnant with Lorelei. Every decision you’ve made since you saw her on your ultrasound has been filtered through how it will also impact her. How it’ll effect her. How it’ll benefit her. How it won’t.

Whether Mia was just fear mongering or not, she didn’t lie. What will she think of you when she gets older and she can’t escape what made her mom’s name? Is that the type of ammo you’re willing to give cruel ass kids? This world is small, but this island is so much smaller. Stains on figures as big as you two are don’t just disappear.

Being considered is the greatest form of love, and it’s just that more potent since you know exactly how it feels to be on the receiving end of its absence from a parent. 

You didn’t have anything to your name growing up but the letters. You had a small family of two, your aunt Yvette and your cousin Namina. As kids, the two of you spent humid summers nights on the island chasing fireflies with mason jars in the grassy backyard and that was enough. After the sudden passing of your father, your mother was so struck by grief that she sent you off to her sister’s when you were ten and left the country for some self-discovery journey she’s still on. The last you heard of her from aunt Yvette, she was in Barbados. 

You haven’t seen her since, and you don’t want to.

That’s not how you want your daughter to feel about you. She should never have to question how much her mother loved and considered her like you do yours. You don’t want to make that same mistake.

That doesn’t make this any easier because the implications of him and Mia potentially becoming an actual couple after all this is so nauseating it makes you sick to your stomach. What if they go all the way? What if they get married? What if they have a family? What if. 

“The matter with you?”

You glare at your cup, “I’m fine.”

“Don’t do that girl shit with me. I asked you what’s wrong.”

Now that you think of it, breaking this to him in public out of all places is a better call than in the privacy of your own home. If you know him like you think you do, he’s, without a shadow of a doubt, going to lose his shit when you open your mouth. Doing it in the presence of the scattered few in this parlor might encourage him to keep his composure.

You play with the frozen milk and cookies with your spoon as you recall Mrs. Wallace, Vernon’s wife, stopping by Sunburnt and chit chatting with you during check-out— her warm southern charm bleeding through as she rattled off every little thing orbiting around her sun recently: her visiting grandchildren from Seattle, Younes being let go from Green Turtle, this summer’s projected record-breaking heat, and the blueberry pie she’d made just last weekend. 

When you rewinded to ask her for more details about Younes’ firing, you couldn’t help the discerning sense of familiarity that overcame you. The timing of it all, the scapegoat, the pattern. 

Come up with a reason and make it believable.

As disappointed as you genuinely are in him, the information Mrs. Wallace told you is also the perfect excuse for what you need to do. 

Your voice is low, “I heard they found Vernon’s boat.”

He pauses for a second, his stare blank. When he mutters, disinterest is written all over it, “did they?”

You shake your head and scoff lowly, “you’re unbelievable.”

You know him. You know Younes defying the status quo by taking you out like this entire island doesn’t know you’re off limits is what did it. And if it wasn’t him, it’d be the next man. This is just what Roman does. It’s how he maintains control. He’s done shit like this since you’ve met him.

He throws rocks and then hides his hand. “What are you talking about?”

You look behind you, your eyes sweeping over the sparse pastel parlor to make sure no one’s close enough to eavesdrop in this tiny town where everyone knows everyone. Quietly, “I’m talking about the fact that nothing ever changes with you. You get upset with me for stringing you along and then show me why that’s all I should ever do. Things like this are exactly why we called it off, and now you’re even involving the livelihood of innocent people. That’s what I’m talking about.”

He pushes his empty cup to the side of the table and casually stretches his jaw as Lorelei coos, “that had nothing to do with me. I was with you the night they said it was stolen.”

“Really? Then where were you when I woke up in the middle of that night?”

His alibi crumbling like sand between his fingers renders him silent. You two went round for round until you were whining about being sore and overstimulated that night. He swore you were down for the count when you fell asleep before he decided to take that little trip to the dock with Jimmy and Jey.

When he realizes you’ve got him, he shrugs like he doesn't understand why this is a big deal in the first place and moves the goalpost, “he got it back in one piece.”

You shake your head and drawl, “that’s not the point. The point is after all this time… you’re still the same.”

He catches your drift and his demeanor gradually fades from the passiveness that was just present, “what are you saying?”

“I’m saying we’re stagnant, and our relationship is hurting other people now too. People that don’t deserve it.”

To distract himself from the blaze starting in his chest at what you’re insinuating, his eyes casually breeze over the locals inside the parlor. Hurting other people? Fuck other people. Who’s he hurting? Vernon? Vernon’s boat was arguably in better condition under his care than Vernon’s. You don’t give a fuck about Vernon or his boat. This is about Younes. You’re upset that he fucked him over because you actually do like his weak ass, you just don’t want to say it out loud.

You don’t have to. He will. “People like Vernon? Or people like Younes?”

You play with your fingers under the table and sigh at the conclusion you knew he was going to jump to, “Roman, I don’t want to fight.”

“Answer my question.”

You look into his eyes and hope he can see how earnest you’re being, “I told you I’m not seeing him again, don’t make this out to be something it’s not. I’m talking about Ver—”

“So two weeks ago when I asked you if we should end this, you said no but a boat that goes missing for forty-eight hours tops and gets returned in mint condition suddenly has you changing your mind? And you want me to believe this has nothing to do with Younes?”

“Not in the way you’re assuming, Roman. You can’t… control yourself and I just don’t want blood on my hands. I don’t want to be the reason the way I’m the reason right now. What if something went wrong when you… hot-wired the boat or whatever you did? They catch live seafood for the restaurant with that boat. That’s how they make their living. What then?”

Everything else that counts, you destroyed. Don’t throw that in my face like I’m keeping us apart over nothing. Don’t minimize your part to make me look like the bad guy. You fucked that up with your bare hands.

Fuck.

You two were so close, so close he could practically taste it. He was chipping away at your resolve of keeping you two apart, he fucking knows it. He knows how your heart beats. This is how it’s supposed to be, just the three of you. Walks on the beach. Ice cream with Lorelei at the parlor. Your giggle when he bench presses you when you stroll into the home gym to tell him dinner’s ready. When you’re fussing at him and when you’re coming on him. Whenever and wherever.  

Was he just supposed to let another man think it’s supposed to be any different? Over his dead body.

He tightens his jaw when you pipe up to penetrate the silence that settles, “I know what this means. What you have going on, and I understand. I can’t be upset or mad at it.”

“You’re not making any fucking sense Capri. You’re not making sense.”

His outburst at the conclusion you’re drawing captures the eyes of patrons at a table nearby and you offset it by clearing your throat and readjusting your posture until they look away. When they do, you peer out the window into the sunlight shimmering on the surface of the blue sea out in the distance. One singular question slicing you clean open, “so it’s over? You’re done with me?”

It’s what you need him to believe, so you press your elbow on the table and place your mouth against your fist, too weak to look him in the eye as you send the final blow. “We can still be frie—”

Before you can finish stomping on his heart, he’s sliding out the booth and tossing a wad of cash on the table from his pocket before pulling Lorelei out the highchair and walking out the parlor. 

You wipe away the beads of tears at your lashes as you watch him tuck her into her carseat from the window for a few moments before gathering all of your cups and plastic spoons, tossing it into the trash, and sniffling as you silently make your way to the car.

.

For the first time ever, Roman apologizes.

A real, verbal apology. He doesn’t try to make it up to you by never mentioning it again and making a grand gesture like sending extravagant gifts to the house instead like he usually does, even though a bouquet of baby pink hibiscus flowers littered with white baby breath does accompany him at your porch this time around. The type he always tells you to stop plucking from the neighbors yard and sticking behind the crevice of your ear before they call the cops.

He doesn’t do shit like this. He’s uncomfortable as fuck, but he swallows his pride and apologizes because he knows you two have never been as close to reconciling as you just were. He’s never been as close as he just was to getting you back, getting his family back. And since you guys were so close, maybe if he does something like this, it’ll make up for his fuck up.

When you open the door, he swears to you that he’ll work on it. That you’re right, that he wouldn’t have to do shit like that if you just took him back in the first place but that it’s something he’ll work on if it means having you in his life. That he’ll even buy Vernon and Mrs. Wallace a new boat for their restaurant if you want.

Your heart swelling and stomach tightening at the gesture and his effort, you talk to him for what feels like hours on the dark porch lit up by the golden lamp hanging on the exterior wall. It’s a dance. An angsty push and pull where you maintain the front that you don’t want this anymore because it’s what’s best, even though the truth is being kept apart against your will has done nothing but made you wish you’d just taken him back when it was still an option. 

Not only does the apology fall on deaf ears, it also ends with you limiting his impromptu visits to the house by reinstating the original custody agreement. 

It’s too much. Him taking strides he’s never taken. His hair slicked back in a high bun, his shirt straining around his chest and the biceps leading down the arm grasping the flowers— faint bags under dark almond eyes. If he’s anything, it’s persistent. There’s only so much you can take before you lose willpower and let him back in. It’s also only so long until he realizes the reason you claim you’re keeping him away from you is a bunch of bullshit.

However, things take a sharp turn when you cut his access to your security system.

One of your biggest unanswered questions in this entire ordeal was how Mia even got her hands on that recording. There were the typical hallmarks of security system footage on the video from the timestamps to the quality when she showed it to you, but you know she definitely doesn’t have access. At least not directly. But you know Roman does on his devices and she’s does have access to those. And quite frankly, you’re not comfortable with the possibility of you nor your child being monitored in your own home without your knowledge any further than you already have been. That’s not flying.

For Roman, it’s the nail in the coffin.

You went on two dates with ole boy, you brought him to the house, you cut Roman off over what happened to Vernon’s boat which is coincidentally what got him fired, you weren’t having any of Roman’s attempts to make it right with you, you’re forcing him to respect the custody agreement which sounds like you’re making sure he doesn’t pop up at the house outside of when you’re expecting him— and now you’re cutting off his access to the security camera?

This has ‘you cut him loose because you and Younes are a thing now and you want to be able to slip him in and out of the house without his knowledge’ written all over it. All over it.

And it’s a devastating final blow to his ego. 

.

It starts with sparse sightings in public. 

Distant, grainy paparazzi shots captured at night, only lit up by the yellow streetlight of the sidewalk as they exit whatever building they’re leaving and make their way into his Camaro. 

Sometimes distanced, with him walking in front of her. When she senses the paps and he doesn’t care enough to fight it, their hands intertwined. She can’t help the happiness that exudes her when he doesn't fight it.

Mia keeps her finger on the pulse of social media narratives on their relationship. Which is why the peak of the speculation sparked by their most recent pap shots, since there were sightings of you and him during Wrestlemania weekend, is when she soft-launches him on her instagram story with a coy, faceless picture of them lounging poolside as Future’s I Won plays over the post. He’s shirtless and belly down with a 49ers baseball cap tossed over the side of his face to block the sun, his arm tossed over her waist— but the internet would recognize that tribal sleeve anywhere.

From that point forward, she quietly correct narratives left and right. Whenever rumors of a split circulate on twitter because they haven’t been spotted in a while, she’ll include a nondescript picture of him in her next photo dump to kill the noise. When Roman likes a picture of you and throws the timeline in a tizzy, she’ll repost a subtle quote on her instagram story implying everyone involved has moved on and the internet should too. 

When the tiktok deepdives into the niche saga that is you, her, and him pop up on her for-you page, the ones including the times Roman has embarrassed her in the past, she’ll like a comment left that’s defending her. One that states people in the comment section don’t know the full story, that every relationship has its ups and downs, that people calling her every name in the book are only upset because she ended up with Roman and not the person they wanted it to be. 

Casacoco’s launch party, Mia’s athleisure brand, marks the first time the two attend a public event as a couple. 

The line designed to appeal to the Alo and Lululemon pilates princess base is held inside an industrial space. In clean, small script inside expresso martini’s, ground coffee powder neatly spells out the brand name. The letters are cleverly embroidered everywhere: on the napkins, on the kiosk of the photobooth meant to encourage social media posts after the event, on the pastel yoga balls and other gym props set as decor, on the brown and baby pink PR gift bags.

Chattering influencers roam under framed minimalistic editorial shoots of her that lean into sexuality on the the brick walls of the large, dark room; her figure lightly oiled-up to imitate sweat in a variety of the sets of leggings, biker shorts, sports bras, tank tops and panties. All of which are zoomed-in pictures of her against a solid background as she stretches her body into a range of yoga poses.

It’s not his scene. The entire night, Mia floats through the room to kiss cheeks and hug attendees with her hand behind her, her fingers intertwined with his just to make sure his back doesn't leave an imprint on the wall. Her guests try their best to focus on chit chatting with her but it’s hard to ignore the aloof but alluring man engulfing her frame behind her as he nurses his drink.

All things considered, she’s on the top of the world right now. The site went live this morning and they sold out of their inventory in two hours, the waitlist is full, the party is a hit, and Roman chose to join her. To be here. Mia, Anastasia, and Roman take a couple of pictures in the photobooth and it feels like a full circle moment. A wink from the universe for all the bullshit she’s had to withstand. It feels like a victory lap.

While she and Anastasia are talking to the brand’s Chief Marketing Officer on the other side of the room, his phone starts ringing in the pocket of his pressed slacks. When your name flashes on the caller ID, he sets his glass down on the bar he’s by and makes his way toward the door leading to the restroom where it’s quiet. He pushes the door open at the same time he swipes on the screen and presses it to his ear.

“Roman?”

He tucks his hand into his pocket and glances at the floor, “yea.”

“Lorelei’s not feeling well. I think she’s got a stomach bug.”

“You’re at the hospital?”

“No. Her cough is persistent and I don’t like that but other than that, she’s responding to the medicine. Her fever’s gone down since.”

Mia pushes the door open with a soft baby? But shuts her mouth when she realizes he’s on a call. You hear this, but he doesn’t react— far more concerned with the news of a sick Lori, “you need me there?”

“Where are you?”

Mia’s interest, unaware of the context, piques. She walks farther into the restroom and slinks herself around his arm, her eyes on the name written on the caller ID.

“L.A. Mia’s thing, but I can take a jet.”

On the other side of the line, you pause. She’s getting better. Maybe if she was still as under the weather as she was earlier, you’d encourage him to fly back, but she’s getting better. Also, you heard Mia’s voice. You don’t want to add more fuel to an already scorching fire by pulling him out of her event on her big day, “um, no. She’s okay. I’ll take her to the E.R and call if she gets any worse though. I just wanted to keep you in the loop.”

Something tells him to press further. “... FaceTime me.”

After the press of a button, he and Mia watch as the camera flips to show a sleeping Lorelei burrowed in your arm as you sit in the rocking chair of her dim nursery, her cheek smushed against the swell of your chest. Her little nose is kissed a flushed shade of pink and she looks defeated, even as she rests. Your voice is hushed, “She’s been like this all day.”

He presses on the brakes so quickly it gives everyone present whiplash. His voice is laced with venom, “all day? Why didn’t you call me earlier?”

“I was busy tending to her, Roman. I was gonna call you later.”

“A phone call takes one second. You’d be livid with me if I waited the entire day to tell you she was sick. She’s my fucking kid too, Capri.”

The hush that falls over like a blanket is tense, and it’s followed by Mia quietly unwrapping herself from his side to give him a moment to breathe. There’s been a lot of change recently. Too much, too quickly. Many of those being revoked privileges that allowed him see Lorelei as often as he pleases. You’ve never been this strict with him, and it’s frustrating. You’re empathetic enough to see that, so you remain still, continuing to rock your baby back and forth.

A deep breath huffs through his nose, “call me if shit changes man. I’ll be there.” 

He hangs up the phone and leans his back against the line of sinks with both hands on the surface, his head tossed back in a moment of decompression.

“Was that necessary?”

His eyes shut, “I’ll ask for your input when I need it.”

Her kitten heels click against the tiles as she smacks her lips and gets close enough to run her hands up and down his torso, “don’t be rude. She’s prioritizing Lori, she’s just being a good mom. Plus my niece always gets those tummy bugs. She’s gonna be fine.”

You are a good mom. That, she can’t take from you. If you weren’t, you would’ve made a very selfish decision with the ultimatum she gave you but you didn’t. You did the right thing for not only your child, but for everyone involved. She knows it wasn’t the best or even the right way to go about it but it had to end. The back and forth was torture, but it’s even more fucked up to keep everyone in purgatory when it’s clear that you know what you want and don’t want. You don’t want him and you know it but you just play with his feelings. You’re just as cruel as she can be. 

All of that can be pushed to the side now, though. Because she’s not keeping score but if she were, you might’ve won a battle here and there throughout the years but she just won the war. 

He’s quietly smoldering, his eyes low and jaw set as her hand caresses the firm bulges and crevices straining the fabric of his polo. To help him get rid of the pressure tightening his shoulders and tugging on the tip of his brows, she plants one, two, three pecks onto his lips as she slowly and blindly fumbles with the belt buckle of his slacks, sinking to her knees with her eyes glued to his.

.

“All better!” Dr. Emerson sings when you finish sticking the small Doc McStuffin’s themed bandaid over Lorelei’s injection site. She wailed and squirmed so adamantly after her shots, she made it nearly impossible for the doctor to do it on her own during the routine check up. 

Thankfully, she fully recovered from the flu that ransacked her a couple of days ago. You tried your best to convince Roman that you were sure she’d be fine in an effort to not ruffle any feathers with Mia, but the truth is you didn’t know a damn thing. It was the first time she was anything other than perfectly fine and it gave you the scare of a lifetime, but you had to bear that quietly. The night you called him, you didn’t sleep at all. You got a cup of coffee and migrated from hovering over her crib as she slept to the living room sofa on a loop until the sun came up. Both because you know what would be awaiting you if you fell asleep, and because you couldn’t bear the thought of this baby slipping through your fingers too.

Dr. Emerson, a dual-certified obstetrician who’s covering for pediatrics today, types away at her laptop with a faint smile on her face as she intermittently watches your pouty girl as she clings onto your abdomen. She’s been your OB your entire life. She monitored your entire pregnancy with Lorelei and your first pregnancy for the sixteen weeks it lasted prior to the car accident. She also happened to be present in the halls of the emergency room when you were wheeled in by the paramedics the night of the collision. The E.R was understaffed that night and they needed all hands on deck. You’ve been a patient of hers since you were eighteen and she didn’t even recognize you because of the sheer amount of blood, but she recognized your voice and your pleas for your boyfriend. For her to please call your boyfriend. 

She helped save your life that night.

“Such a clingy girl.”

You smile, the paper crinkling under as you readjust her in your lap on top of the exam table. “She’s been like that recently.”

Dr. Emerson finalizes her notes and speaks offhandedly, “you know, there’s an old wives tale about a baby actively engaged or cuddly with a woman’s belly being an early sign of pregnancy.”

You huff out a chuckle through your nose and slightly wiggle the index finger Lorelei has her little fist wrapped around to pacify her. Only when Dr. Emerson looks back up at you two to let you know the general date of when they can expect another visit from Lori a couple moments later, your smile is shrinking— a thin film of unease left in its trail.

Her expression adapts to adopt one far more diplomatic as decades of experience kicks in like an awakened sleeper agent, swiftly switching gears back into her primary practice. “Are you still talking your birth control pills?”

The last several weeks have been so distressing, you haven’t had the time to sit and mull over the timing of your late period. However, your current peace of mind is the fact that the former has been so taxing on you and your body, it just might be responsible for the latter. “Yes, but I’m definitely late now that I think about it.”

“Do you want to check?”

No.

Panicked. “Yes.”

She nods. “Okay. I’ll order a urine sample before we jump to any conclusions.”

When she leaves, the room becomes a lot more sterile and fluorescent than you remember it being, the scent of alcoholic disinfectant discernible. You can’t be pregnant. The thought of how difficult it’d be to handle Lorelei and a newborn without any help during nights is so debilitating you don’t even want to imagine it. And Mia. Shit. She’s already feels a way towards you because you and him were sleeping together during their situation, but him getting you pregnant? Again.

Once you submit the sample and get your vitals checked, you’re running on auto pilot. Like when you’ve made it home after zoning out during the drive and you wonder if all those lights you passed were really green or if you ran a red somewhere in the middle.

Dr. Emerson returns and takes a seat on her rolling stool, “alright, Capri. Your labs do seem to confirm that you are pregnant. Based on the date of your most recent menstruation, you look to be right around the 3-4 week mark. So, very early.”

Your stomach plummets, the pulse of your heart faintly audible in the tunnels of your warm ears as you shake your head. “I just… I’m on my pills. On the rare instances I miss it, I take a plan B.”

She nods understandingly, “If you miss your birth control pill one time too often, which is a hormonal contraceptive meant to bar ovulation, it can trigger ovulation back on. The fine print with The Morning After pill that many people aren’t aware of is if you’re already ovulating again when you take it, the plan B is completely ineffective. You’re essentially just popping a skittle.”

“Another thing I want to talk to you about is your blood pressure. It’s way higher than I would like. It’s not considered gestational hypertension unless it show up after the 20 week mark, but this could easily snowball into preeclampsia later into the pregnancy if we’re not careful. We’ll continue to monitor you to see if it’s temporary or consistent before diagnosing it but in the mean time, stay hydrated, limit your sodium intake, and most importantly, moderate your stress the best you can.” 

You’ve got that thousand yard stare in your eye. She’s talking, but you’re not hearing her. She drones on and on until the words just start sounding like an incoherent stream of consciousness to you. You don’t know where one ends and the next begins but you nod like you’re following.

Dr. Emerson’s professionalism takes a backseat for a second for her empathy to pierces the veil, “you have options, Capri. You’re still well within the window to exercise termination or adoption if that’s what you want. Along with your prenatals, I’ll send over some pamphlets for you to take home that have everything you need to know about every option available. Think about it and if that’s something you want to explore, we’ll talk more in depth about the next steps at your next appointment.”

The glide of your Bronco’s wheels over road pavement and Lorelei playing with the toys hanging down the arch of her carseat are the only things that penetrate the silence of the drive home. You’re so detached, you don’t even ruminate anything past the fact that nobody can know. Not even Roman. At least not right now. Not until you know what you’re going to do. You don’t even know if this is a situation you want to bring another baby into, but especially not right now when things are so sensitive. The reason why you complied with Mia’s ultimatum is Lorelei, but it’s not lost on you that one of the reasons why you told Roman that he shouldn’t come check on her when she was sick was because you didn’t want Mia thinking you were using her as a pawn during her big day.

The irony isn’t lost on you, because that’s not prioritizing your child and her wellbeing. That’s not being a good parent. Are you even a good parent? Why would you want to add another baby to this?

You just drive until you see the familiar palm trees at your yard and pull into the driveway. You pull her out of her carseat and are walking behind her as she uses her palms and knees to slowly climb up the porch stairs when you spot a medium sized package at your welcome mat. You don’t remember ordering anything recently but you pick it up anyway and unlock the door.

At your kitchen island, you rip the package open to reveal a baby pink box. Under the wrapping tissue lies a variety of apparel: a grey sweatshirt, black leggings, white tank tops and socks, two-piece baby pink mini shorts and sports bras, all of which are adorned with a small ‘casacoco’ sewn somewhere on the fabric.