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nevertheless-moving · 2 months ago

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The Demon of Yunmeng: Part Five

Part One — Part Four

Wei Wuxian looked up at Wen Qing, bewildered.

"Well, that's settled then," she said, standing up. "I'll leave you two to discuss things — there's a few quick errands I need to run. I would ask that you please not leave before I return, I have parting words for you both."

She gave a perfunctory bow, then swept out the door, ignoring Wei Wuxian's protests. She didn't even tell him to get back in his chair.

There was really no other choice but to look back at Lan Zhan, who's ears were red, but face was set.

"You do realize my plan involves lying, right?" Wei Wuxian finally said.

"Not lying to say I was with you that night."

"Yeah but —" he made a frustrated noise. "Lan Zhan, that is actually incredibly helpful, but my whole idea was to create doubt that I even liked women at all! That I was always a cutsleeve. You know that it's not just Yu Guniang's accusations, they're bringing in women from everywhere I've ever been, from the campaign, I can't say you happened to be there every time!"

"...Was usually on the same front as you. Stayed in the same camps."

He gaped at Lan Zhan, who was completely failing to mention the reason that was true was because Hunguang-Jun had persistently shadowed him to keep an eye on his demonic cultivation. Far more bizarre, he also appeared to be suggesting that they build an elaborate lie around that fact.

"You want to go in front of the cultivation world and say we were sneaking around together the entire sunshot campaign?" Wei Wuxian asked in disbelief. "That I couldn't have possibly been raping women indiscriminately because I was too busy taking your dick up my ass?"

Lan Wangji made a choked noise, red crawling up his neck, hands tightening over his knees as he looked away.

"Yeah, Wen Qing suggested I say that I was the 'receiving partner,'" Wei Wuxian said, viciously twisting the knife, tugging at the hem of Lan Zhan's robes to get his attention.

"If... it increases the chance for Yu Guniang to get justice..." Lan Wanjii said, still not meeting his eyes. "If it would protect Wei Ying..."

Wei Wuxian gaped once again in baffled disbelief. "You're going to lie. In front of everyone. About years of our lives. About sex. You're going to lie about having sex with me in front of a crowd."

"...Between the two of us, no one would expect me to do the speaking."

That was actually a pretty good point, and he paused for a moment to consider it. "So what, I would say all the crazy stuff and you would stand next to me, occasionally interjecting about something that actually did happen?"

"Mn."

"Like I'd say 'I couldn't possibly have been with your daughter that night, I was too busy sucking Lan Zhan's dick, and you would stand there, not arguing, not saying lying is forbidden?"

"Mn." The red of Lan Zhans neck and ears had crept around to his cheekbones.

"Fuck, that could actually work," he muttered.

"Wei Ying."

"What?"

"...Please get off the ground."

He laughed somewhat maniacally. "What," he cooed. "Is this too provocative a position, considering the subject matter?" He leered, batting his eyes and pulling himself closer.

"Wei Ying," Lan Wangji hissed, face twisting towards anger.

"This is exactly what I mean!" Wei Wuxian put his hands on top of Lan Zhan's, who pulled back as if burnt, which only meant Wei Wuxian was able to grab his knees instead, which he leaned heavily on to half pull himself up. "How are you going to pull off being my cultivation partner when you don't even like being near me?" he asked, not without humor. "I would at least have to touch you, Lan Zhan! You hate being touched." He squeezed Lan Zhan's knees for emphasis.

Lan Wangii set his jaw, hands visibly tightening where they were clutched to his chest. "I can do it." he grit out.

Wei Wuxian snorted, then stood.

Lan Zhan's moment of relief quickly faded as Wei Wuxian dropped into the man's lap. "Wei Ying!" His hands shot forward quick as lightning, grabbing the demonic cultivator's hips and holding him so far away he practically fell off, preventing him from sliding inappropriately closer.

He leaned in, grabbing at the front of Lan Zhan's robes. "Just give it up," he said, exacerbated. "There's absolutely no way anyone will believe the two of us are cultivation partner's — look, you are literally holding me at arm's length right now!" He shifted, trying to get up, but Lan Wangji's grip on his waist was a bit too firm.

"Alright, so you want to contribute to justice," Wei Wuxian rolled his eyes. "You can still say you brought me to my room and I was too drunk for anything! I think it will really help. Between that, this blood test I invented, and maybe an unrelated cutsleeve thing — I don't know, I still have to talk to Wen Ning —"

Suddenly he was yanked forward, not all the way flush with Lan Wangji, but close enough to certain look intimate to outsiders. "I. will. do. it." Hunguang-Jun growled.

Once again, all he could do was stare in confused amazement at the uncharacteristic behavior. "Say, Lan Zhan," he said, growing suspicious. "You're not cursed or something right? You didn't hit your head?"

"No."

"Then why are you insisting on this?"

"..."

"Look, I admit, maybe you could pull it off, you've got a thicker face than I give you credit for — but why? Why do you even want to?"

"Wei Ying."

"What?"

"..."

"What? What, I'm listening, why do you want to do this?"

"...Yu Xiang. Cheng Cai —"

"Cheng Cai?" Wei Wuxaian asked, bewildered. He focused, but couldn't sense any curses at all. "Who's that?"

"Jin Guangshun sent out a list of women who will be attending the conference to accuse you."

He groaned. "Of course he did."

"You all deserve justice."

Wei Wuxian groaned again, letting his head fall forward onto Lan Zhan's shoulder, who had no choice but to bear it or give up. "I get it, you're too righteous for this world. You're willing to sacrifice your dignity for the greater good but Lan Zhan — I really don't think you've thought this through."

"Thought enough."

"Come on! It's not going to just be one day, you realize?" he said hysterically. "You're going to have to live with the lie for the rest of your life! No one will let you forget it! At best, you'll be a laughingstock. At worst, they'll lump you in with the worst of my crimes!"

"...Don't care."

"You don't care."

"Mn."

Wei Wuxian squinted at him. Lan Wangji stared back, face placid, is still lightly flushed at the uncomfortably prolonged physical contact. To be fair, the second jade of Lan was one of a handful of people he could believe genuinely didn't care about the opinions of others. He gave off an aura of unshakeable confidence in himself that could be mistaken for the arrogance Wei Ying actually did possess.

Despite himself, Wei Wuxian found himself genuinely considering the idea. "You're really serious about this aren't you?" he asked slowly.

"Mn."

"What about marriage? What if you want to get married to a beautiful woman one day? Your reputation will matter then!"

"Not interested," Lan Wangji said firmly.

That was... also believable. The matchmakers that were circling Jiang Cheng could be pretty terrifying, and it was easy enough to imagine the solitary Lan Zhan desperately seeking a way out of sharing his life with someone. It's not like Lan Sect would approve a marriage with him, so this would be a fairly effective, if explosively dramatic way to escape that particular fate.

The idea that Lan Wangji might get something personal out of this made the insane idea seem more plausible.

"I guess even if you blush the whole way through the trial," Wei Wuxian mused, "Everyone might assume it's normal embarrassment at being so publicly exposed, rather than unfamiliarity or discomfort."

"Don't blush," Lan Wangji grit out.

"Ha!" Wei Wuxian laughed. "Practicing your lying skills early, huh Lan Zhan?" He reached forward, boldly grabbing Lan Zhan's red ear and tweaking it.

Again, to Lan Zhan's credit, he didn't push Wei Wuxian away or protest the excessive contact. Even if all he did was stand there like a jade statue while Wei Ying shamelessly draped himself against his body, well. Like the talking, it wasn't that far removed from how people would imagine a relationship between them would work, if one were crazy enough to imagine such a thing.

A knock came at the door, and the two tensed.

"It's me," Wen Qing called.

Wei Wuxian relaxed. "It's your office, open the door yourself."

She stepped inside, raising an eyebrow at the position the two of them were in. "That was faster than I thought," she said dryly.

Wei Wuxian rolled his eyes, squirming to get comfortable. Lan Zhan's grip tightened almost painfully, pushing him back to maintain a slightly respectable distance between their torsos.

"Just making sure Lan er-Gongzi knows what he's getting into," Wei Wuxian said smugly.

Wen Qing snorted. "Right, about that — I've got something for you two." She placed a tightly sealed jar on the table.

"What is it?" Wei Wuxian asked, craning his head over his shoulder. Lan Zhan obligingly turned to the side, seeming too afraid of what Wei Wuxian might do if he let him go to risk it.

"Red Seaweed Oil," she said, settling across the table. "It's good for internal use."

It took a second for that to sink in, then Wei Wuxian felt heat crawl up his face. "Haha," he laughed nervously. "That's very...thorough of you, Wen Qing, but I don't think anyone will be searching our belongings, or um...asking for a demonstration."

Wei Wuxian didn't have a lot of practice sitting on other people's laps, so it was an interesting experience feeling Lan Zhan's legs turn to literal jade beneath him as he presumably tightened every muscle in his body in distress. The flush and slight widening of eyes was practically a scream of alarm by anyone else's standards.

"Okay," he said, deciding to take pity on the poor repressed monk. He reached down, prying Lan Wangii's fingers off his hips. "I think this point has been made." Lan Zhan finally let go, and he swung himself back to the other seat.

He turned, facing Wen Qing. "Why are you giving us this," he asked, exacerbated.

She stared at him with a level gaze. "I like to think I know you fairly well at this point, Wei Wuxian."

He snorted "I'd say you're in the top five of people who know me, Wen Qing."

"I know what you're like."

"Yes?"

Wen Qing glanced for a long moment at him, then at Lan Zhan, then sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "If you actually were a cutsleeve, and the secret was finally out in the open, when would you start shamelessly cracking jokes about it to make people uncomfortable?"

"Immediately and then forever," Wei Wuxian said promptly.

"Do you think you would be able to resist digging through your belongings, leaving an object out, and then pounce viciously on whoever was foolish enough to ask?"

He picked up the jar, considering. "Say," he said, possibilities of a whole new realm of pranks opening before his eyes. "Do you happen to have any of those replica phalluses in town?"

A very faint choking noise came from the chair to his side.

"Buy your own," Wen Qing said curtly. "We don't have many specialty merchants come through here."

"Hmph," he leaned back in his chair, finding he lacked the desire to look Lan Zhan in the face. He glanced over anyway. The flush had faded completely, leaving the man's blank face utterly devoid of color.

Wei Wuxian grinned. "You know," he said innocently. "Along that line of thought — it would really help the credibility of my words if you could finish explaining what we were talking about earlier."

"My thoughts exactly," she said, pulling a sheet of parchment and a quill to the center of her desk and beginning to draw a series of curved lines with swift elegant movements.

"This," she said, after a moment. "Is the median raphe. It is sometimes considered an erogenous zone. In addition to being highly painful, abrasions or other injuries that break the skin here come with an increased likelihood of infection."

"I thought we were going to talk about stretching," Wei Wuxian complained.

"I'm getting to that." She pointed with the quill to another wrinkled line. "This is the anal fold. It is sometimes considered an erogenous zone. In addition to being highly painful, abrasions or other injuries that break the skin here come with an increased likelihood of infection."

"I'm noticing a theme."

"Good." She pointed again. "This is the rectum. "It is sometimes considered..."

He glanced to the side. Lan Wangji, who had never avoided listening to a lecture in his life, was staring at the drawing with absolute focus, white knuckled hands on his knees the only give away to his distress. At some point after Wei Wuxian had moved he had crossed one leg over the over, and his ears were once again bright red.

Wei Wuxian sighed, then smiled, unable to help himself. It wasn't the first time he had to...dissuade Lan Zhan away from a stupidly single-minded determination to do what he had unilaterally decided was the 'right' course of action.

Lan Zhan might have gotten even more stubborn over the years, but that wasn't any reason the process of breaking him couldn't be as fun as when they were fifteen.

Prev Chapter (Four) Next Chapter (Six) MDZS AU Masterlist

[Note: This is for almost for sure gonna get rated E later on (if it's not already idk) so don't commit unless you're cool with sex comedy/ porn interwoven with plot.]

#Mdzs #Mo dao zu shi #Wangxian #My au #mdzs au no 1 #The demon of yunmeng #mdzs fanfiction #90% of Lan Zhan's brain power during that conversation was dedicated to his hard-on and Wei Ying's EXACT location in proximity to it #i feel like he managed really well considering #look i know everyone writes only lan zhan's ears blushing and i support you #but that's a 13 years later thing! teen lan zhan turned fully red! wei wuxian was annoyed by how much harder he was to embarrass!#cw: rape references #i outlined this whole fic and its 70 chapters long with 4 extras #the odds of me writing every chapter are slim to none but who knows. if somehow I do I guess i'll move to an everyday update schedule idk #more likely i end up posting random chapters at a certain point #anyway if anyone is interested in beta-ing I would really appreciate it #I've rewritten the first chapter and have several on deck and have some structural second guesses in terms of where to split scenes #if you prefer committing to beta a chapter at at time that's also cool

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leafwateraddict · 1 year ago

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YOURE TELLING ME I MISSED TITTY CUPCAKE DAY

Look, I dont know a lot about saints and Catholicism, but I know St. Agatha is always depicted with her breasts on a plate, and that’s sure something

#WAUGHHH #the fact that the catholic church refers to her as a virgin is really interesting to me #really redefines your definition of virginity huh #cw rape #rape mention #saint agatha

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sleepymarmot · 4 months ago

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Surely, Paul Sheldon’s nightmarish experiences involve his fear of a mother-figure, Annie Wilkes, the crazed female fan who rescues him from a car crash and then holds him hostage, progressively infantilizing him and threatening to castrate him if he does not use his pen to keep writing about the Gothic romance character, Misery, with whom she has identified. What might be less obvious and more interesting is the fact that Paul’s matriphobic fear of Annie may disguise a desire to return to the mother, to regress to a pleasurable state of total dependency and reliance upon the mother to fulfill his every need. The attraction-repulsion Paul feels for Annie reflects his own ambivalence toward a state of dependency, which he both desires as a relief from the burden of independence and fears as a challenge to his hard-won autonomy. Paul’s misery is Stephen King’s masochistic fantasy, a nightmare of the male body emasculated, the male psyche stripped of its independence. And yet not quite, for all of Paul’s suffering—and there is an extraordinary amount of it, shockingly detailed, excruciatingly drawn out, and just a chop away from fatal—all this male masochism merely leads to the triumphant assertion of masculinity in the end. As feminist critics have not failed to note, the “violence and bodily invasions in Misery begin with Annie’s oral ‘rape’ of Paul,” but they “end as Paul shoves burning manuscript-bond down Annie’s throat, thinking ‘I’m gonna rape you all right, Annie’” (Bosky 1992, 154). “In order to reassert the gender identity necessary for creativity in Stephen King’s metaphorical universe, Annie must be raped... Thus Annie’s orifices must be filled—especially her demanding mouth—her power overthrown, and her sexual creative passivity re-imposed” (Lant 1997, 110). The scene in which Paul forces Annie to eat his manuscript may have been inspired by the one in Ridley Scott’s 1979 film Alien, where the android Ash (Ian Holm) attempts to shove a rolled-up porno mag down the throat of the troublesomely empowered female Ripley (Sigourney Weaver). Scott’s film, however, ends with its female hero triumphant, whereas the climax of King’s novel involves the reassertion of male force.

To get a better understanding of how the male masochism of Misery contains within it a wish-fulfillment fantasy of sadistic male triumph, we might compare the ending of King’s novel with another film that closely resembles it, but which, like Alien, ends very differently. [...] In Smith’s view, the lesson to be learned from this movie’s failure is “that the masochistic stage of such narratives cannot be presented as a complete castration and that the possibility of transcendence must always be kept available. The masochistic trope in this sense must be no more than a temporary test of the male body” (162). Smith is describing the action-adventure genre in which male bodies succumb to punishment as proof that they can take it like a man. This “near destruction” is thus merely a prelude to the “final hypostatization of the male body” (161); the physical display that makes the body appear vulnerable, the violation of that body’s integrity, is a test of manhood, passed when the “demonstration of masculine destructibility” turns into proof of “recuperability” (156); “the two-stage exhibitionist/masochist process must always be followed by a narrative revindication of the phallic law and by the hero’s accession to the paternal and patronizing function of the third stage of the orthodox action movie codes” (159). Carol J. Clover (1992) has argued that this narrative turn from masochism to sadism, from vulnerability to invincibility, holds true for horror too: “Although the odd horror movie does follow a masochistic scenario to its annihilatory end point (The Incredible Shrinking Man, for example), most undo the dream or fantasy through an eleventh-hour reversal, longer or shorter and more or less sadistic” (222). We can now describe Misery as a masochistic wish-fulfillment fantasy in which a man flirts with the idea of total dependency and vulnerability only to master his fear of weakness and to prove his manhood in an act of sadistic triumph over a female body. If we look closely at the scenes in which Paul suffers, we can see how his frightening ordeal is constantly being reimagined as a test of strength: the more horrible the pain, the stronger the proof of his indestructibility and macho omnipotence.

“Your Legs Must Be Singing Grand Opera”: Masculinity, Masochism, and Stephen King’s Misery by Douglas Keesey

#misery #gender and sexuality #rape cw #warning: the analysis in the rest of the article is *very* freudian #...as one might guess from the reference to freud in the very first sentence lol #i went looking for feminist criticism and immediately found freudian criticism instead. well alright i'll take this too #sorry about the formatting breaking the quote in two; tumblr blocks are only 4k characters long

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ladyloveandjustice · 2 years ago

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I was very worried that Ango saving Hana from the river was going to be his big redemption for his attempted rape of her, but fortunately that is not the case, Tamura has more sense than that. (It would have been an especially shitty "redemption" considering he was the reason she fell into the river in the first place).

In fact, it's the exact opposite, Ango doing absolutely nothing to help Hana despite having the means to save her is what makes Koruri realize she's wrong and Ango absolutely WOULD let Hana die out of hatred for her father.

#nev reads 7 seeds #reference to attempted rape cw

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konigsblog · 10 months ago

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reader getting gang raped for talking shit about men 😛

something the 141 would do with their enemy. :( 🩸

tw/cw; rape/gangrape, non-con/dub-con, dark content. dead dove: do not eat. MDNI 18+

can you really blame them for their inhumane treatment? you were supposed to be on their side, a fraud, sharing precious and important information to the enemies, soiling their plans. they trusted you, took you in as their own, with open arms and a warm heart.

you weren't familiar with this side of them. callous, hurtful, violent. they were brutal with you, violating your every hole ‘til you were coating them in your crimson blood, spread out and presented to them for them to brutalise. despite the piteous cries that echoed in the interrogation room followed with pleas of forgiveness and mercy, they weren't gentle. not even kyle or johnny, who now demanded you refer to them as ‘soap’ and ‘gaz’, no longer on a first name basis. fuck, they were so careful with their beloved teammate.

your sudden and shocking betrayal left them savage, revengeful, and vindictive, and they couldn't help but feel disgusted with you, raping you until you were limp in their arms.

they'd tell you that you had it coming, you should've expected to be tortured for your betrayal. your previous captain was merciless with you, with each rough thrust stretching your asshole open, your cunt practically swelling with this abuse, split open and fucked into, reduced to a hole for their pleasure and an outlet for their frustration. ghost bit into your skin, enough to draw blood, while you sucked another off, the muzzle of a gun pressed against the crown of your skull.

they wouldn't kill you—not yet, at least—keeping you as a slave for their own use, beaten and raped ‘til you were unrecognisable, a shell of your previous self.

#orla speaks #tw: rape #dead dove fic #dead dove do not eat #tw: dark content #tw: non con #captain john price #captain price x reader #kyle garrick x reader #gaz call of duty #john soap mctavish x reader #soap call of duty #cod ghost #ghost call of duty #cod simon riley #simon ghost riley smut #tf 141 x reader #141 x reader #cod x reader smut

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twola · 2 months ago

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Passerine: Chapter 5

PAIRING: High Honor Arthur Morgan x Fem!reader

Things hurtle toward their conclusion - the pregnancy, the gang, and the relationship.

Warnings: This fic has graphic descriptions of non-consensual sex, violence against women, the trauma thereafter, and somewhat unhealthy coping mechanisms. If any of that content makes you feel uncomfortable or triggers you, this may not be the fic for you.

chapter cw: references to rape, violence, injury, illness, death. canon events have been modified.

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous | ➵ Next

Even the songbirds sound sad and gloomy in these hills. Everything is dark, wet, foreboding. A general unease has settled into the gang, or at least, what was left of it. The evening fell far too early, darkness blanketing the valley far earlier than you thought it should. Presently the blazing orange of the sunset already seems to be escaping this land for the west.

If only, if only.

“Can I listen to the baby?”

You shake your head slightly, waking yourself from the brooding thoughts you were having. The scarf you were darning for Abigail lies draped across your lap. You’re sitting against a tree toward the outside of camp, along the hillside where the only sunlight seems to penetrate the tree cover. You secretly are happy for the company, knowing that it would be an embarrassing struggle for you to get back to your feet from the ground, something you should have thought of before sitting down.

You smile, ruffling Jack’s hair. The boy hovers in front of you, waiting for your response, a huge, giddy smile on his face. At least someone here was happy.

“Sure, C’mere.”

Jack stoops down in front of where you are sitting and places his head upon your belly, closing his eyes in concentration. You place your hand back upon his head, running your fingers through his hair as he listens.

“There’s just a bunch of gurgling!” The boy snorts, and you ruffle his hair again with one hand as you take the other and guide it against a spot on the left of your swollen abdomen.

“Cause the baby’s in water….can you feel it? That’s probably a little foot right… there.” You press Jack’s hand against your skin until his eyebrows raise in amazement when he feels a protrusion.

“That’s a foot?” He asks as he scrunches his nose, pulling away from you.

You smooth over your skirt again, gently rubbing at your belly, as you can feel the child squirm within, having been awakened by Jack’s curiosity. A foot to your kidney, a head against your bladder. The constant discomfort of soon-to-be motherhood.

“Do you think the baby will like my Penny Dreadful books?”

“Some day, Jack, when you’re reading it to them.” You suck in a breath at a well-placed kick seemingly right underneath your rib cage. A hiss escapes your mouth as the child squirms uncomfortably within your body, and Jack immediately frowns at your pained expression, pulling back from you.

“No, no, it's okay,” You try to calm the boy down, placing one of your hands on his shoulder, “The baby’s just kicking. Almost ready to come out.”

“Jack!”

John Marston’s rough voice cuts through the falling dusk, and Jack scrambles up from his knees.

“Over here, John.” You call out, thankful that at least you weren’t going to be forced to holler for someone to come help you up.

It's only a few moments before John comes upon the two of you, rubbing his hands on his pants in an attempt to clean them. He nods back over toward the tents.

“Jack, come on now, time to get cleaned up. Go on over to your momma.”

“Yes, papa.” Jack nods up to his father, smile beaming, before running back toward the camp. A pang hits your heart and almost makes your eyes mist over in your emotional state - to think how, months ago, John could barely even look at his son, and now he’s spending afternoons play fighting with sticks with the boy.

“Y’ need some help there?” He looks down at you with an amused half-grin, the silvered scars across his cheeks moving as he snorts.

You give a tired half-smile back up to him. “Would you? God only knows I’m going to hear it from Arthur for not being in bed right now.”

He steps in front of you and holds both of his hands out for you to take. You grab them and groan as you let him pull you up, breathing out heavily as you lean forward into him to steady yourself as you’ve gotten to your feet. To his credit, John holds your shoulders patiently as you huff.

“Y-you’re too skinny these days, Marston.” You pant, trying to break the awkwardness. God, you were pitiful.

John doesn’t seem to mind, “Ain’t like I was fed like a king in Sisika.”

You breathe out another long breath and nod, your hands moving from his biceps as you’ve steadied yourself. He removes his hands from your shoulders and holds out one arm for you to interlace your arm with to walk back.

“C’mon, let’s get you back to the tent. Startin’ to see why Arthur’s gonna be mad as a hornet.”

“Hush, not you too.” You groan, rolling your eyes as John starts to slowly walk you back to your tent. Upon reaching it, you unlace your

“Thank you, John.”

He nods, his eyes lingering on your belly.

“You alright?”

He swallows before responding, “Guess I’m just startin’ to see what everyone else did.”

“About?”

“How much of an ass I was to ‘em. Abigail and Jack.”

You place one hand on his shoulder, giving a small, knowing smile. The other lands on your belly. “Well, now you have the chance to make things right.”

John nods, remaining silent.

You squeeze his shoulder affectionately.

The night has fallen in the campsite, and you have shed your dress within the privacy of the tent, clad in your shift with a shawl over your shoulder to stave off the cold. Another night alone, it looks like - you sigh and start to ready yourself to settle into the cot, grunting in discomfort as you reach for and toss random items of clothing that you had worn during the day into the far corner of the tent.

You go to reach for the dirty bandana curled up on the bedside table to add it to the laundry pile.

“Don’t touch that.”

You jolt, surprised to hear the rough voice of your lover as he reties the canvas behind him, having silently stepped into the tent. The orange glow of the oil lamp inside the tent casts shadows, to include across his face before he takes off his hat, placing it on the small shaving table. His shaving kit has not seen much action these days, having grown out his beard fully.

“Arthur,” You pull his hand to rest over your belly, large and taut in your dress. The child within squirms as you press Arthur’s hand against the top of the swell. Abigail said the babe has dropped - and you’re apt to agree, the pressure on your hips is becoming near unbearable these last days.

But, as with the jovial mood of the gang, as with the loss of good men and the move into these cursed hills, gone is Arthur’s joy, a blackness having set in upon him as Dutch seems to be reeling, as

A blackness that mirrors the blackness that has set into his lungs.

He won’t admit it, but you’re sure that he’s grown out his beard to hide the darkening gauntness of his cheeks as he has lost weight, his muscles no longer straining against his shirt. He came back from that blasted island after that damned bank job and has never been the same. Tuberculosis, the doctor in Saint Denis had said.

Downes, Arthur had muttered darkly, ending the conversation.

Since then, the distance that you had put between you returned, coming from him this time. He slept on the ground - wet and cold, forsaking your bed, no matter how often you pled for him to lie with you. Even simple touch was limited, him refusing to get near to you as his coughing worsened, specks of blood appearing on his handkerchief as time wore on.

Any day now, Abigail had said and started to pack a small bag for you and her to go down to Annesburg - rebuffing Grimshaw’s annoyed statement that you would give birth in camp.

I did that five years ago and no way in hell am I subjecting another woman to that. We’re goin’ to Annesburg, and that’s final. John will take us when it's time. Abigail had forcefully stated, a matronly rage upon her, protective of you and your child.

Arthur remains silent, pulling his satchel from around his shoulders and placing it on the table next to his hat.

Forlorn, despondent, you step forward and press yourself against him, moving to throw your arms around his neck.

“Stop.” Arthur pushes you back, albeit gently, putting distance between himself and you while holding your shoulders.

“Please-” You plead, knocking his hands back, off of you.

Arthur lets out a long breath, the vestiges of a cough yet evident in his rough voice. You grasp his hands and he makes to yank them away from you, but does not, his brow falling. His large, scarred hands loosely rest in yours.

“You - you’re acting like you’re already gone.” In your late stage, you can’t help but to sob, breath heaving as your tears spill over.

“Honey,” Arthur interrupts, trying to calm you down, taking his hands from yours and placing them on your shoulders, “I’m right here.”

“You’re not, you won’t hold me, you won’t kiss me - I’m about to have our child, Arthur-”

“I ain’t gettin’ you sick.” Arthur raises his voice, loud within the confines of the tent. He realizes only afterward that he snapped at you when you wince in response, “Sweetheart.”

“Sleep with me.”

“Sweetheart-” He clears his throat, “You know we can’t. I ain’t gettin’ you sick. And I sure as hell ain’t touchin’ you this close to you having the baby.”

“Abigail says it's fine.” You whisper softly, your hand resting upon his chest, and you look up to finally catch him.

He sighs, closing his eyes. “I need to protect you. Like I didn’t all those months ago.”

“Ev’rything is falling apart. Can we just… pretend for a moment? That we’re just… we’re just-”

Arthur remains silent. You remove your hand from his chest and place it on your belly. Swallowing, you continue, voice cracking.

“I just want to pretend that none of this happened. That we’re back at Horseshoe before you got sick or….”

Arthur sighs in a defeated manner.

“..o-or when that O’Driscoll took me. I never want to see you look at me like that again.”

His eyes shoot open. “What?”

“I was - I am - I’ll always be afraid that you’ll decide you won’t want me because of what happened. The look in your eyes when you found me in that cabin…” You rub gently at the swell, back swayed and hips aching, “I don’t know why… I just do.”

“That ain’t - there ain’t… Darlin’-” Arthur sputters, “That’s the last reason I don’t want you. Hell, it ain’t that I don’t want you at all. Christ, I want you more than ever. I just don’t want to-”

You reach out and take his hand, “Just be careful. Just be gentle. I gotta be on my side so I won’t be facin’ you, much as I want to kiss you.”

The dark circles under Arthur’s eyes betray him. He squeezes your hand back.

“I need you.” You look up at him with it plain on your face.

Damn you, damn you and that voice, that look of yours. Much like that night out in West Elizabeth all those months ago, Arthur’s resolve cracks like porcelain.

“Alrigh’,” Arthur whispers. “You tell me anythin’ don’t feel right.”

You let go of his hand and slowly shrug the shawl draped over your shoulders off and it falls to the ground within the tent with a muted thump.

You’ve gotten too large to wear your old chemises, instead opting for looser cotton petticoats that could be tied over your stomach. You bring Arthur’s hand up to your chest and wait for him with pleading eyes. Arthur traces his finger along the neckline before pulling it down to uncover your breast. Your breasts are full, and swollen, nipples darkened and sensitive as you close your eyes to the feeling of him ghosting over them. He pulls the petticoat down further, showing more and more of you to his eyes.

Arthur swallows as the cotton falls slowly from your shape. Your belly, large with child, has dropped, centering low above your hips.

“You’re the prettiest thin’ I’ve ever seen.”

You blush, moving to cover your breast, “I’m huge.”

“You’re growin’ my child,” Arthur says, pulling your hand away from your body. He trails his other hand down your belly, hard and full. “Evr’y day on that island all I could think about was you - how beautiful you’d be when I got back t’you.”

You close your eyes to the feeling of his hands upon you. A gentle squeeze of your swollen breast, a tender caress of your belly.

“Knowing you were back here, safe, with our child…” Arthur whispers hoarsely as his hands trail over your nude form, “I’d fight through a thousand wars to come back t’you.”

You lay in the cot, settled in on your side, and look over your shoulder as Arthur pulls away from you and strips himself down. Boots get tossed to the side. His gun belt winds itself on the ground. Shirt and pants and union suit follow until he is as bare as you.

He is pale, now that the sunburn from Guarma has finally faded. Not as in he’s returned to his normal coloring, but pallid - his bulk and previously bulging muscles are much subdued. He is still Arthur, of course, but an Arthur stricken. Unwell. You can barely keep yourself from sobbing when you look him over, turning your head quickly as he climbs into the cot.

His skin is warm behind you as he slides himself into the cot. He settles himself in, his blood-hardened cock pressing against your rear as he drapes one arm over your belly. In this moment of quiet intimacy, he presses his lips against your hair. Your hand covers his over your belly.

Perhaps you can forget, for at least this moment.

His hand moves down from your belly to trace through the hair above your cunt, and you sigh as you open your legs to him, his fingers finding that little nub with practiced ease. A few moments more, and you’re aroused enough for him to withdraw his hand and wrap it around the base of himself as he turns back toward you, stroking himself several times before guiding himself to your core.

You moan, throwing your hand over your mouth as he enters you - the smooth, warm column of him pressing slowly into your cunt.

“Y’okay?”

“Always, always - please move Arthur, please-”

“Christ,” Arthur swears as he slowly rolls his hips against your rear, cock sluicing through your slick - it’s clear your want for him, even diminished as he is.

You clench your hand hard around the edge of the cot, panting high and flighty as Arthur gently, carefully, thrusts in and out of you. His hand spreads out wide over your hip. Arthur continues at his slow, gentle gait. He secretly is thankful for the necessity to be soft and slow - he doesn’t think he’d be able to fuck you the way you two had at the beginning.

“I love you, sweet girl,” Arthur whispers, holding still for a moment, his cock sheathed completely inside your body. That large, calloused hand of his moves over your belly once more, highlighting the magnetic need for him to touch you there.

You whimper, and your hand joins his. “I l-love you, Arthur.”

The pressure of the child, maybe a week away from coming into the world, and Arthur’s hefty girth stretching your cunt makes tears collect in your eyes. It doesn’t hurt: it’s overwhelming. It’s so much, it’s you giving so much of your body to others.

Arthur slowly rolls his hips and your tears threaten to spill over. It’s so much.

“Arthur, Arthur -” you coo, trying to be quiet, “I’m gonna come-”

He groans as he slowly slides his cock all the way inside you once again and you shudder, clenching down on him as you stifle a cry.

“That’s it, come for me, oh- sweetheart-” He murmurs into your hair and clenches his hand on your ass cheek as he lets loose his hot spend within you.

He gasps, far too winded for even the kind of lovemaking that was, his lungs feeling like sandpaper. Arthur goes to pull himself from your body-

“Don’t-” You whine softly, jutting your hips back to try to keep him inside you. He grunts lowly, squeezing your hip, but stops pulling away. Still hard, he sighs as he presses that inch of him that left you back in, staying in your wet warmth.

His hand tracks from your hip to cradle your belly once again, and you cover it with your own. Arthur traces his fingers gently on your belly as he listens to your breathing slow, and finally, your hand falls to the cot beneath you.

He gently extracts himself from your body, gritting his teeth against a hiss that he wants to let out as his softening cock slips from you. Unwinding his limbs from you, he stands up from the cot, quickly collects his clothing, and redresses himself silently.

After he shoves his feet into his boots and rewinds his gun belt around his hips, he grabs at an old blanket in the corner of the tent. The threadbare fabric is rough between his fingers. As calloused and worn as they are, he cannot help but frown when he thinks about how the old wool feels against your skin. You deserve better than that, but for now, this is all you have.

He pulls that blanket over your nude body, over your swollen belly, over your widening hips, your bosom, where your breasts are heavy with milk coming in for the child. Over you, sleeping fitfully.

Christ, he muses, you’re the most beautiful thing alive. If only he could stay and watch over you all night.

Arthur mashes his old gambler's hat onto his head as he ducks out of the tent, closing the canvas behind him.

He spits on the ground, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand, gritting his teeth as blood streaks across the freckled skin. The night has fallen over this miserable camp - there are no thrummed guitar strings, no drunken notes sung. The gang has never been so low, even in Colter. God, he misses Hosea. He misses Lenny. He automatically reaches into his pocket for a cigarette, needing the rush to pull him out of this pit of misery.

A solitary figure sits on one of the chopped logs next to the fire, his head nodding upward as Arthur approaches.

Smoke wafts through the night, from the campfire, from the cigarette now placed between Arthur’s teeth, from the match John Marston strikes to light his own cigarette. The song of crickets fills the air, and an owl randomly hoots. Arthur sits down upon the log, his boots crunching leaves softly beneath. This damn forest was too quiet. It was like something, someone was lurking just out of reach at all times. He hates it here.

“Need you to do somethin’ f’r me.”

John looks up from the fire, having been lost in his thoughts. He nods, watching Arthur take the cigarette from his teeth and hold it between his fingers, his other hand clutching that worn gambler’s hat of his father’s that he is never without.

Arthur’s voice is rough and tired. A reflection of his being. Shit, it could be a reflection of everyone’s being after moving to this shithole.

“What you need?” John asks, waiting for Arthur to ask for him to be his second on a robbery.

“Need you to take care of them. Her - the baby,” He nods over to the ramshackle tent, “I need you to keep them safe.”

“Arthur-”

Arthur stands back up, effectively silencing his foster brother’s bellow. He throws his cigarette to the ground, mashing it under the toe of his boot. His spurs jingle against the movement. He places that black gambler’s back atop his head and glares down at the younger man.

“I ain’t askin’ you, Marston.”

One last train, of course, it had to be one last train. Damn well almost killed everyone involved, but Dutch was able to claim the army payroll, for whatever good it was going to do the gang now. People were leaving. Uncle. Pearson. Karen.

Have them packed. I’m having her ready to go. He had told John, to prepare for the finality - prepare to leave the people they had called family for years like thieves in the night.

John got a bullet through the arm during the heist, knocking him to the flatbed of the railcar. Fortunately, that seemed to be the worst off that anyone got in the fiery explosions that ensued, the felling of guards and the train rocketing over the destroyed bridge - but they got the damn money - and that was all Dutch wanted.

Arthur and Sadie had swung to the west when the gang broke up to return to Beaver Hollow. Riding hard, the two of them followed the Kamassa south to the Elysian Pool before crossing the river to head north again.

In the waning afternoon sun, Sadie pulls hard on the reins of her horse to slow him as riders approach from the north. She does not pull her gun, instead guiding her horse to the side of the road and dismounting. The riders pose no threat - women.

“Arthur, Sadie - we, we did as y’said,” Tilly pants, out of breath atop one of the camp’s wagon horses, with you clinging to her waist, also breathing hard. Abigail slows the horse she rides, with Jack firmly planted on the saddle ahead of her. Hastily packed bags are slung over her horse’s rump. Arthur coughs yet again as he brings his horse to a stop as well.

“Where’s John?” Abigail asks, looking past Arthur and Sadie for any sign of her lover, the father of her child.

“He’s comin’ back to the camp from the north.” Sadie gruffly states, motioning for Tilly to slide down from the mount she was on. Tilly nods, doing so as you balance yourself on the horse’s rump. “C’mon now, Tilly, you can handle your own horse. Let me ride with the missus over here.”

Arthur swings down from his own mount as he wheezes for breath. You wish you could swing down and rush to him, but you are uncomfortable enough in your state. Eventually, Arthur makes his way over to you as Sadie mounts up on the saddle ahead of you, whispering something comforting to the horse.

“Now you go on and stay with Missus Adler here.” Arthur pats your thigh as you lean over and take his shoulders.

“What- you aren’t…?

Arthur solemnly nods and the weak dam holding your tears back bursts. Everything you have come to know is dying in front of you.

“A-Arthur-” you cry, tears pouring from your eyes, pushing against his shoulders as he lifts you gently by the hips to place you on the horse’s rump, “Don’t do this - y-you can’t do this.”

His eyes cannot meet yours, but his hands remain on your waist, gentle and warm, “Missus Adler is gonna take care of ya…”

Your hands move from grasping at his shoulders to his cheeks, hollowed under his beard, tipping his head up to look at you. His bloodshot eyes finally catch yours, dulled blue and glazed over in a sheen of tears unshed.

“Arthur-”

“Darlin’. You go on and be safe. You raise that baby right.”

“You can’t leave us,” you sob, voice cracking loudly.

Arthur takes the half step closer and places his head in your lap, his forehead against your swollen belly. Your sobbing is muted for several moments as your hands card through his short hair. He pulls back a few inches and looks up at you, an inescapable, endless sadness in his darkened eyes. Arthur places his lips upon your belly for a moment before taking your hand in his own, drawing it to his dry and cracked lips.

“I love you, sweet girl. Always r’member that.”

Your brow furrows again as you push his hand away and cup his cheek, gaunt and hollowed under your touch.

“I love you, Arthur Morgan.”

Arthur kisses the palm of your hand again, turning toward it.

“Susannah.”

“What?”

“If it’s a girl, name ‘er Susannah. I’ve always loved that name.”

You smile, the track of tears down your face sparkling in the sunset. “If it’s a boy, he’s Arthur.”

Arthur snorts softly, “It’s a girl. She’s gon’ be as beautiful as you.”

Your hands hold his jaw with a gentleness that he does not deserve. His eyes slide shut with a weariness that he has not allowed himself to feel until now. He cannot help the furrow that forms between his brows. He cannot help the sudden pain behind his eyes, the desperate need to bury his face into your lap and shudder and let his strength down, whatever little left there is.

No. No. He cannot do that to you. He has failed you enough. He didn’t keep you safe. He got a child upon you when he was supposed to be comforting you. He wouldn’t be around to raise said child.

The teardrop escapes his eye before he can do anything about it.

He can feel your thumb tense, your wrist shifting to allow your skin to brush against his-

Arthur pulls away before your thumb can wipe the tear from his cheek, and it disappears into his beard. He turns away from you, severing touch like an open wound.

“Missus Adler.”

You cry out like a wounded animal, “No. No, Arthur-!”

Sadie nods, “I’ll take care of ‘em, Arthur.”

Arthur turns to the other horses to nod to Tilly and Abigail. Abigail, clutching at her son, returns the gesture solemnly, unable to speak.

“Now all of y’ get outta here, go get somewhere safe.” Arthur stalks toward his horse, wheezing before spitting a glob of bloody phlegm out on the ground.

He hoists himself up into the saddle without looking back. He cannot, he cannot bring himself to know he will never touch you again, never see you again.

“Arthur,” you weep out from atop Sadie’s horse one final time, one hand over your belly and one around Sadie’s waist, “Our baby-”

He digs his spurs into his horse’s side. He cannot, he cannot look back at you, swollen with his child, days away from bringing that sweet life into the world.

“Arthur-!”

His horse rears and starts off up the road, leaving the women behind. Giving them a chance. Giving you a chance.

He grinds his teeth, trying to keep the sting of tears behind his eyes as your wailing fades away with distance.

Arthur wonders, for one fleeting moment, what color the baby’s eyes are going to be. He spurs the horse on faster as he reaches into his satchel, taking his father’s hat out and placing it back on his head.

At least, the very least, he would spare the child the torture of a terrible man as a father.

So this is how it goes. This is how it ends. After all them years, Dutch, his foster father sides with that snake who hisses falsehoods in his ear.

He was never really the same after Hosea died.

Arthur is drowning in his own skin, sucking breath in vain to power himself forward, but everything is so heavy. He is heaving- stumbling, failing, dying-

“Come on, Arthur… keep pushing. Goddamn it! They’re everywhere, we need to get outta here-”

John Marston’s voice cuts through the night. For so long, it was grating, infuriating, annoying to him. Now? Now it is the greatest comfort in this time. The gang was done, Pinkertons descended on the camp - they were fleeing for their very lives-

“Y-You go…” Arthur wheezes, his feet dragging on the ground.

John stops, several steps ahead of him, his arm hanging limply as he clutches his revolver in one hand, “Keep pushing, Arthur.”

“No…I think I’ve pushed all I can.” Arthur pulls his hat from his head and starts to swing his satchel’s strap over his head and shoulder.

John shakes his head furiously as he walks the few steps back to Arthur, “Come on. We ain’t got time for this, not now.”

“Go to your family-” Arthur shoves his satchel against John’s good arm.

“And yours? Your woman, about to give birth, any day now. Your child?” John interjects, raising his voice.

“I’m dying, even if it's the Pinkertons or Dutch or anyone else that gets me first. This…this is why I..I… you, you gotta keep them safe,” Arthur coughs again, wet, wheezing. “Go to your family, John.”

Arthur reaches up and places that old gambler’s hat on John’s head. His father’s hat, that he had kept for so long…

John’s voice gets small. “You’re my brother…”

“I know. Now go. Please.” Arthur stares at the ground, another volley of gunfire going off in the distance.

John frowns once again but heeds Arthur’s demand. He nods shortly before limping off in the other direction, down the steep mountain path to the north. Arthur gazes at the valley below, flashes of light from approaching gunfire sprouting from behind trees. The blazing fire from what was left of camp glowing in the distance.

He takes a long breath in, knowing it will be one of his last. The exhale is shaky, devolving into a hacking cough where blood spittles out through his teeth.

He does not bother to wipe his face.

Shooting his revolver in the air, he curses loudly before stumbling in the other direction, further up the mountain.

Ambarino lies quiet in the distance.

As he lumbers forward on unsteady legs, his blood is fresh in his mouth as he thinks of you.

You’ll be even more beautiful as a mother.

Damn, and he won’t be able to see it.

John’s damn arm is on fire. Freely bleeding against his hand, he can barely move it as he clutches his revolver in his good hand. Getting shot, the fall from the train, limping back to camp only to have the gang finally implode, and now Arthur sending him away, staying behind, sacrificing himself for the others, damn him.

He curses, batting the hat Arthur had placed on his head upwards slightly, so he could see better from under the rim.

The gunshots in the ravine below echo through the night, dark as all now, in the moments before dawn.

Abigail and Jack. Abigail and Jack. He pushes the pain to the back of his mind. Abigail and Jack.

Be a goddamn man.

Arthur’s words echo in John’s head as he slides down a rockfall ledge on the north side of the mountain.

Ambarino lies quiet in the distance.

Head north and hide out. Slink down the Kamassa by night. Find Abigail, find Jack. Copperhead Landing, Arthur said.

Find his family. Save his family, his woman and his boy-

Save-

You let down Jack from your horse at Clemens. You read him a book under the covered porch at Shady Belle. You attempt to teach him dominoes at Beaver Hollow.

Jack asks if he can touch your belly. You smile and let him, urging him to put his ear up to your abdomen. He squeals with delight when your belly moves against his cheek and begins to babble about all the things he is gonna teach the baby. Abigail says they’re gonna be cousins, Uncle Arthur’s baby and him.

Save his family.

He stops; the echo of gunshots through the valley getting louder. The Pinkertons were likely closing in. Micah and Dutch were lurking about. Arthur on his last leg.

You’re my brother.

John Marston grits his teeth against the pain in his arm and turns back at the first hints of the sunrise on the horizon.

#twolafic #passerine #arthur morgan smut #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #red dead fanfic #arthur morgan x female reader #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan x reader #red dead redemption #rdr2

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trippinsorrows · 6 months ago

Text

looking through your eyes + eight

authors note: so....i like cliched shit, so there's some of that here. hope it's not too much. this one is also very heavy at points, so please read the warnings, but it def has its moments that help progress the plot. also, the book referenced is a real work that we often use in therapy with survivors of sexual trauma. an excellent, powerfully healing read. i own neither the book nor the excerpt used.

if any cw/tw’s are missed, please let me know, and i will add them!

cw/tw: references to csa, aftermath of csa, character being triggered, scene of violence/torture, fluff, angst, language, and suggestive themes

song inspo: ‘looking through your eyes’ by leann rimes

masterlist

words: 12k (i clearly don't know how to stop. it is what it is)

It's out of our hands We can't stop what we have begun

---Leann Rimes

“Clarke.”

There’s a heavy sigh followed by continued writing, icy blue eyes focused on the report before her instead of the irksome man before her, no doubt giving her those ‘fuck me’ eyes that would be an HR nightmare if HR actually did any fucking thing at this precinct.

She finishes her quote before asking with all the intentional disinterest, “what do you want, Reed?”

His question, as well as his intrusion by her desk, is expected. “why aren’t you joining the rest of us for the luncheon today?”

It’s none of his business, and Danica has no issues telling him that in intentionally vague terms. “Got somewhere to be.”

Finally looking up, she sees Reed’s gaze go cold. “Where?”

Danica drops her pin and answers in the sweetest yet nastiest voice she can muster before 10am. “Not that it’s any of your goddamn business, but the Miller girl is being released from the hospital today.”

Reed is just as confused as he is stupid. “Who?”

His obtuseness shouldn’t surprise nor irritate her, but it does. She remembers every single case she’s ever worked, and she’s certain this one will always remain at the top of the list. No matter how far she gets into her career. “Solana Miller. Xavier Miller’s daughter. The home invasion—”

“I know.” Reed’s almost relaxed, nosy disposition has entirely shifted. “Captain said the case was closed. Kid doesn’t want to press charges.”

“That kid is fucking traumatized. Don’t put that on her. Xavier is the one refusing to let us proceed.”

Reed leans forward, harshly whispering, “keep your fucking voice down, alright? Miller is…..he’s not someone you want to piss off. If he says we don’t run it, then we don’t run it, got it?”

“And who the hell is he to decide how the law works?” Clarke is also leaned over her desk, almost a month worth of pent up frustration with the lack of justice bubbling to the surface. “You read that medical report. You were on the scene. You don’t beat a grown man the way they beat that little girl. She could barely fucking walked. Dragged herself to a neighbors to ask for help. It’s a miracle she’s still alive.”

“But she is, okay?” He’s also matching her energy, just as passionate about blatant injustice as she is for said justice. “The best thing to do for that kid is to let her go home, heal, and move on with her life.”

And that’s the part that almost breaks her, that almost makes her shift from her role as an advocate to the survivor within that so deeply identifies with Solana.“You really think it’s that simple? Like she can just go back into the house where she was raped and almost killed and pretend like nothing happened?”

“No, I don’t know, Clarke, and quite frankly, I don’t care. I’m moving on and picking my battles wisely.” His voice switches to something ominous. “And if you knew what was good for you, you’d move on too.”

Aware of the underlying implications of his warning, she calls his bluff, “you threatening me?”

“Believe it or not, I actually do like you, Danica, but you’re playing a dangerous game.” Reed’s voice lowers again, and Danica almost feels like he’s trying to be genuine. “I know you’re still new around here, so let me give some free advice. Xavier Miller is a dangerous man. He’s got friends in places you don’t want to find out about. Leave this alone before you’re the next mutilated body we find floating in the river, alright?”

________

Danica Clarke has always been stubborn, a trait she’s certain will lead to her demise, but if this is the route that brings her to said demise, she’s okay with it.

Danica waits in the doorway, aware of how knocking can be alarming. She waits and assesses for the moment Solana’s gaze is close enough to where she won’t be as startled. “Hey there, pretty girl….”

Sure enough, Solana jumps a bit, and Danica is pleased to see the swelling on her face has gone down tremendously and the bruising has started to fade to an almost flesh toned color. She looks less at death’s door than the first time Danica was introduced to the 12-year-old.

“Can I come in?”

As expected, Solana doesn’t say anything, just nods quietly.

Danica moves to sit in the chair on the side of the bed. “Heard you were getting released today….” Danica studies Solana carefully, adding kindly, “may be kinda nice to have a change of scenery.”

Solana remains quiet, but Danica has been around enough survivors, remembers her own survivor story, to know that nothing feels nice or good in the immediate aftermath. There’s just numbness and pain. No in-between.

“I’m so sorry there’s nothing more I can do to help you, Solana. I really am.” And she means that with every fiber of her being. “You didn’t deserve this. You deserve justice, and I wish there was more I could do, but….my hands are tied.” Danica’s only been at this precinct for less than six months, and while asking to be transferred won’t be a good look when evaluations roll around, she doesn’t give a fuck. She can’t serve with bastards who would let sick fucks like Solana’s attackers walk around freely.

It’s too repulsive.

“But, I do…..I want to give you something.” Danica reaches into her backpack and pulls out something she hasn’t had to look at in years. A book, thick, with yellow, paperback binding. The edges are a bit worn, and certain parts are highlighted, but it’s still just as powerful nonetheless. “When I was….a little younger than you, I was raped too.” Danica sees Solana’s gaze lift up, surprise and shock written on her face. “And it wasn’t until I was a freshman in college that I started to heal and finally process what’d happened to me.” Danica’s lips press together. “The counselor I saw in college, she gave me this book, and it changed my life.”

Solana looks down, reading the title, typed in big, black letters: The Courage to Heal: A Guide for Women Survivors of Child Sexual Abuse.

“I wanna read something out of it for you, if that’s alright?” Consent, especially now, is everything, so Danica waits patiently for Solana again to nod, permitting her permission to read.

With a deep breath to also prepare herself for revisiting the past, she begins reading a passage that Solana can see she has highlighted.

“I know you're in a world of pain, but that pain will lessen. At the beginning you can't see that. You can only see your pain and you think it will never go away. But the nature of pain is that it changes— it changes like a sunset. At first, it's this intense red-orange in the sky, and then it starts getting softer and soften. The texture of pain changes as you work through it. And then one day, you wake up and realize that life isn't just about working through your abuse; it's about living, too.”

Danica looks up to see Solana sniffling, wiping at her eyes. She’s tempted to reach and take her hand, but she also knows better, knows that the last thing this child wants is to be touched.

“I want you to have this, Solana. I want you to take it, and when you’re older, when you’re ready to reclaim your voice, and you will, I want you to read every word in here. From cover to back cover. You’re gonna be okay, sweetie. You don’t feel it now, but you have to believe it.” Her eyes gloss over. “Don’t ever stop living, Solana.”

“Solana.”

Flashbacks and memories from that time of her life don’t happen often, and it’s an intentional thing on Solana’s part.

She doesn’t like thinking about that part, but this certain memory has now revisited her a total of three times now. Twice in a dream and now in the middle of a conversation with Bayley and Naomi.

That…..that can’t be a coincidence.

“I’m sorry.” Apologizing seems like the most appropriate thing until Naomi shakes her head.

“Roman said we’re not supposed to accept or condone you apologizing for anything, so imma pretend like I didn’t hear that, sis.”

Roman….

He confuses her.

He’s certainly unlike any man she’s ever met. And though that number is far from generous, he’s still the anomaly.

After essentially rejecting what was an….interesting, unfamiliar, different experience between the two of them, she expected him to be upset. To be frustrated. To be absolutely all over her baggage. To ignore her.

But, that’s not what happened, none of that has happened. Instead, he’s carried on like nothing happened, like she didn’t run away from him in near tears.

Like they didn’t….like they didn’t almost have a moment.

He’s stayed true to his word in that he’s met her every day after work in the week that’s passed. And while the first day was awkward, mostly on her part, they’ve fallen back in that same confusing yet peaceful space.

Confusing yet peaceful…that seems to be the theme since the day she said “I do.”

It’s not uncomfortable nor unpreferred over where she came from.

It’s just…..different.

“Oh—okay.” Solana doesn’t know what else to say but notices that Naomi looks like she has something else to say but is hesitant. “Is—is everything okay?”

That seems to be the door that paves the way for said conversation. “I’ve been thinking. You’ve come a long way. Like, you’ve really got the basics down, all the defensive positions, even fluidity of movement.” It’s leading up to something, Solana is certain of this, but it also means a lot to her that Naomi believes she’s progressed. Doing well with this or even retaining Naomi’s training is something she never saw for herself. “I want to advance you to learning attacks. Solana’s stomach starts to tighten. “With weapons.”

And there it is.

Solana winces. “Weapons?”

Bayley sighs, joining in to help Naomi present her case. “We wanna teach you how to use knives.” Solana’s stomach tightening quickly morphs into twists and knots. “Hear me out, please. I know….I know that’s gotta be a sensitive thing for you, and I totally understand why, but knife fighting is a really great skill to have, even if just to have one on you at all times and know how to use it if need be.”

“And let’s be honest, Roman isn’t going to let anything happen to you to where you would need it, but still.” Something tells Solana Naomi isn’t wrong about that. That neither woman is wrong in what they’re saying, but just the conversation brings back flashes of that night, the night that left the physical and mental scars she still bears now.

Bayley offers a sympathetic smile. “Just think about it, okay?” Solana can do that. She will do that, just….maybe not right now.

And she doesn’t have to because Roman and the twins suddenly enter the gym space. Solana’s stomach tightens seeing Roman shirtless, a sight that’s happened a couple times now, and each time doesn’t seem to make it any easier on her nerves. If anything, it gets worse.

“Whassup, ladies.” Jey greets, clapping his hands as he asks, “ya’ll ready for tonight?”

“Tonight?” Solana speaks up, not directing her question to anyone in particular, but Bayley is the one to answer. “What—what’s tonight?”

“Night of Champions.” She then goes on to explain. “It’s one of our annual wrestling events. Naomi and I are competing.”

Curious, Solana turns to Roman. “Are you fighting?”

Jimmy, however, is the one to answer. “Soso, Big Dog don’t do these events no more. Not very often anyway, but he’ll be there.”

“Can I come?” Solana directs her question to Roman, knowing that it will be his call. He eyes her unexpectedly.

“You want to?”

She nods, referring to the group. “I—I wanna see them fight.”

It also feels like the right thing to do, to support the two women who’ve been nothing but supportive of her since day one. Even Jimmy and Jey with their often inappropriate comments about her body and continuous praise over her cooking abilities. It’s still always been very respectful in a strange sort of way.

Roman steps towards her, and Solana finds that it takes a concentrated effort to keep her eyes on his and to not gaze downward. Him being shirtless before her doesn’t help with the attraction she’s still trying to wrap her head around and navigate.

He lowers his voice, asking, “you sure?”

She’s confused only for a second when she remembers why he seems to be ensuring this is what she wants. This will be the first time Solana has returned to the Warehouse since Grayson and Austin’s attack, since she caused a whole scene that resulted in the whole damn place being shut down and Roman sending a grim message to all.

For a second, she backs away, retreats from her initial desire. Briefly tells herself that this isn’t what she wants, but that other distant voice in the back of her head, not as present or loud, seems to win the battle this time around.

“Yes,” is the final answer she settles on. “I’ll be fine.”

Roman nods, informing. “We leave at 6:30.”

Solana starts to wonder about what this night could entail when Jey suddenly expresses, “It’s kinda nice outside. I think I’m gonna go for a swim. Get in that aquatic cardio.”

Jimmy also cosigns this after sharing a quick kiss with Naomi. “Oh shit, yeah, lets’ do it

Roman is instantly annoyed, asking with all of the exasperation. “Don’t ya’ll have a pool at your houses?”

“Yeah, but yours is nicer.” Jimmy answers like it’s the simplest thing in the world. He then looks over at Solana, asking, “you joining us, Soso?”

And that, not the idea of returning to the place where she was almost attacked, is what brings on the heavier anxiety. Once upon a time, Solana loved the pool. Swimming with her mom on hot, summer scorching days used to be some of her favorite memories. Now, those memories are plagued with flashbacks of being held under water, a form of torture implemented by her brother.

“N–no.” Solana catches Roman’s gaze on her, the way his eyes dip to her running her fingers against the sides of her workout pants. “I—ummm—I’m going into work for a little bit today, so I should get ready to go.”

Roman speaks up first, skeptical. “I didn’t know you were going in today.”

“I have to take care of something.”

Solana being vague is new, it’s unfamiliar, and it doesn’t feel the best to lie to him in a sense. Even if it’s less a lie and more a vague answer.

There is something she needs to take care of. She just has no desire or even ability to tell him just what she needs to take care of, because that would mean she has to tell him the why, and that is something she’s never discussed with anyone and has no desire ever to.

________

Dear Mom,

I’m sorry I haven’t written you as much. Life has been….very confusing and different, but not bad. I think….I think I like living here.

I like Bayley and Naomi. They’re so nice to me. I think you would like them too. Bayley is Mexican, so we talk in Spanish sometimes, and I love that because it reminds me of us, mama, all our conversations and writings.

Jimmy and Jey, Roman’s cousins, make me laugh. They’re also nice to me, and they really like my cooking, your cooking. I still use a lot of the recipes you taught me.

I finally have a dog, mami! Her name is Dulce. She’s so sweet and little and adorable. Roman got her for me.

Roman…

He’s not what I expected. I don’t….I don’t understand why he’s nice to me. Cause that’s what it is. That much I’ve finally realized. He’s….nice to me.

I’ve never had a man be nice to me.

We had….something happen a week ago. I still don’t really know how to describe it, just that he was touching me, not even inappropriately. And I think…..I think I liked it, but then I got scared because it was like….it was like it wasn’t him touching me. It was them.

And I….I hate that. I hate it because it’s miserable feeling this way. Wanting something but not wanting it. Being scared of something but wanting it. Desiring to be close to someone but not wanting that either.

I feel so torn sometimes.

I’ve been thinking a lot about that book the detective gave me after it happened. There’s gotta be a reason I kept it all these years. I think….I think I want to read it.

I don’t know what to expect, and I’m nervous because I don’t like thinking about it, but I can’t, I don’t, want to keep living like this.

I can’t.

________

When Solana asked to attend Night of Champions, she was thinking it would be similar to WarGames. A foolish assumption. It is in the sense that the arena area is packed, not a single seat unoccupied, the boisterous sound of loud chatter and music serving as a backdrop against said chatter. That’s all the same and unchanged.

What is different and what Solana should have thought about was the fact that the two women who made her feel so comfortable last time won’t be there this time, because they’re competing. And so are the twins.

And Nicki is apparently upset with Jey—a recurrent theme, it seems—so she also won’t be present.

That leaves one person.

Roman.

Solana didn’t think about the fact that she’d be seated with Roman. It’s not as nerve-racking as it could be, as it probably would have been almost three months ago when this whole new, unexpected chapter of her life began.

But, it’s still a bit anxiety inducing.

She doesn’t miss how Roman’s grip on her hand remains firm on hers from the moment he helps her out the SUV, his eyes again taking her in the same way he did when she met him back in his office to tell him she was ready to go.

Solana initially felt unsure of herself given the fact that Naomi and Bayley could only pick out her outfit, shoes, and accessories for the night but couldn’t actually help her get ready given the fact that they were competing. Solana struggled to navigate her hair, as always, pinning it up on her head, and her makeup definitely isn’t as nice as the night of WarGames, but it mostly covers up her facial scar, and that’s all that matters.

Still, she must not look completely awful because Roman did not hesitate to give her a slow one over followed by a muttered “damn” and more vocalized, “fuck, you look good.”

She’s starting to lose count of how many times he’s said that now, and each new occurrence still gives her the same butterflies as the first time.

Roman escorts them to their seats, the twins and Paul already being present. Jimmy is the first to speak, whistling loudly.

“Damn, Soso. How we supposed to fight and you distracting us looking all fine and shit?”

“If you want to live and make it to the actual fight, you’ll shut the fuck up.” It’s hard for Solana to tell just when Roman is being completely honest with his cousins or just deadly honest with his cousins.

This is one of those moments.

“Thank you.” She doesn’t know what else to say, what kind of response is appropriate to something that isn’t as so.

Roman then motions for Solana to sit down and easily props his big body down in the seat right next to her. Their arms are nearly touching, but she tries not to think of that. Tries to distract herself by asking the twins, “shouldn’t you be in the locker room?”

“Naw, we fight toward the end of the night, so we like to assess with Roman till then.”

“Assess?”

While Jey was the one to provide the initial answer, Jimmy handles the clarification. “You gon be a member of the Warehouse, you gotta earn that shit. That means doing your thing in the ring. You ain’t cutting it, you out.”

Solana nods, quietly. It makes sense. Roman seems like a man with high standards. “So…you all have the final say?”

Jimmy takes a sip of his beer, shaking and nodding his head toward his cousin. “Naw, that’s all Big Dog.”

Solana glances at her husband who’s focused not necessarily on the conversation at hand but the preparation for what’s sure to be an eventful night.

“If you don’t mind, My Tribal Chief is trying to focus here.” Paul’s voice, equally nice as it is nasty, reminds her of his presence. For some reason, she’s surprised by said presence, though she shouldn’t be. It’s clear the Wise Man is an important asset to Roman.

“Whassup, my dogs!”

Just then a lanky man comes over to the group. He’s wearing a black t-shirt that says ‘honorary uce’ and has wild red hair that looks like it hasn’t seen a brush in weeks. Solana takes a second to look at him, finding him strangely familiar. It’s then she realizes that he fought with Roman, Solo, and the twins during WarGames.

He goes for some kind of special handshake with Jimmy, then Jey, and finally Roman who looks like he’s contemplating murder rather than wanting to return the greeting. He quickly plays it off, “that is well—okay my tribal chief, and—wow—” Him turning to Solana, finally noticing and acknowledging her, is an experience for the both of them. She notices his initial gaze sets on her chest which is uncomfortable but not entirely unexpected given the style of her dress. Still, she shifts in her seat, uneasy with the attention. “Those are—-ummm—” His eyes go wide, as he moves to backtrack on an obvious Freudian slip. “I mean, it’s uh, very nice to meet you, ma’am, or Mrs. Reigns, or your highness. Whichever you prefer is a-okay with—“

“Sami.”

His shoulders hunch and head drops in shame, like he already knows what’s coming. “Yes, Tribal Chief?”

“Go sit somewhere else.”

This Sami person doesn’t even hesitate, confirming he already knew he fucked up in the less than five minutes he was present. “Yes, my Tribal Chief.”

Solana watches, still partially confused but also kind of amused as he wastes no time in departing.

Paul then leans over, chatting away, “I told you, my Tribal Chief, I never liked Shmuel. He’s always been so beneath you. I understand he makes easy collateral, but—“

Roman sighs loudly. “Wise Man.”

“Yes, my Tribal Chief?”

“Go join Sami.”

“But……” Solana looks over at Paul. His expression is one of devastation, like he’s just been told he had six months to live. “I—I always sit with you for Night of Champ—“

“Wise Man.”

Paul swallows. “Yes, my Tribal Chief?”

“I’m not gon tell you again.” Roman finally looks over at his closest advisor, forcefully enunciating and instructing, “go.”

Similar to Sami, the Wise Man walks off with his tail between his legs, leaving just Solana, Roman, and the twins.

She has no idea where Solo is.

“See, now you ain’t even have to do all that, Big Dog. You be getting yourself all upset over nothing. You need to start doing some deep breathing or shit, then maybe you could get off them high blood pressure pills.”

It’s that last part that Solana zones in on, that makes her turn to Roman, “you have high blood pressure?”

He lifts his eyes, dismissing, “it’s nothing.”

“Can’t—can’t that be dangerous?” It’s not necessarily a question she needs him to answer. Solana is well read on a variety of subjects, especially subjects pertaining to physical health. High blood pressure can mess with a lot of things, a lot of organs. Eyes. Brain.

Heart

Jimmy is the one to chime in, asking with that typical tone of humor. “Soso, you do know what he does for a living right?”

But, it’s hard for her to find said humor when all she’s thinking about now is how certain meals she’s prepared for him could maybe not be the best for his high blood pressure. How she could be exacerbating that.

Feeling pressured by her inner monologue, she offers, “I can change how I cook for you.” And she can. She probably will, making a mental note to peruse through her mom’s recipe books that would be more aligned with the type of diet he probably needs. “I know there’s certain things you probably shouldn’t eat—”

“Solana.” He interrupts, but it’s not with that same irritation he had towards Sami and Paul. “I’m fine. My numbers weren't that bad. The doctor is just being over cautious.”

She wants to believe him, wants to not be as…bothered by this as she is, but something tells her Roman isn’t unlike most men who downplay these sorts of things.

Letting the conversation go, her determination to help him maintain his health remains.

The conversation shifts to a dialogue between the twins and Roman, the three men conversing in Samoan. She doesn’t mind this, as it also allows her the space to catch the gaze of Bayley and Naomi who look freaking amazing in their gear.

“Soso.”

“I swear to God, if you call her that one more fucking time—”

Jey, possibly foolishly, waves off Roman’s threat. “You understand Yeet, right?”

Blinking twice, she asks, “what?”

“Yeet,” Jimmy says it too, like it’s as basic a word as they come. “Our motto.”

“I—” Honesty is a bit easier with her husband’s cousins. “N–no.”

“Man,” Jey makes a sound with his teeth and jumps right into the explanation. “It’s like a way of life. Like, you yeet when life going good—”

“—when life going bad.”

“—or when you leaving.”

“—or going.”

“It’s a way of life.”

Jimmy and Jey playing off of each other for their presentation is entertaining, at best, but it doesn’t leave her any less confused than she was just a minute ago.

“I—I still don’t get it.”

And that, for the first time, is when Solana hears Roman laugh. It’s not something she ever thought possible, but it’s there, his handsome face turned into an amusing expression as he expresses vindication. “I told you it was fucking stupid.”

“See, I thought we was close, Soso. I thought we was becoming family and shit, but I see you a hater like your husband.”

At that, Jey punches his brother on the arm, reminding with a rough mutter, “man, she be cooking, don’t be fucking up our good thing.”

“Aww shit.” Jimmy quickly moves to backtrack. “I mean, I could see your point.”

Conversation continues as such until the start of the night, Solana watching as the three men around her easily shift into an almost business mode. Their gazes are almost intense, watching closely as matches begin.

Solana partially expected to have to sit and remain quiet for the evening, but certain moves, similar to what Naomi and Bayley have taught her, catch her attention. And it must show, because Solana finds herself occasionally being asked by Roman if she has any questions or if she understands why a fighter did a certain mood.

Some she can answer. Some she cannot.

So she asks him.

And he answers all of them, clearly, concisely, in a way she can understand.

If Roman is irritated by any of her questions, he does a damn good job not showing as such. And to her credit, she does her best to take a guess vs asking outright with certain things, pulling from her time with Bayley and Naomi.

And in certain matches, she’s fully immersed in watching their expertise that questions aren’t even a thing. Like the tag team match between two of the most beautiful women she’s ever seen, Jade and Bianca, as Roman called them. Same with Naomi and Bayley who independently show her a side of their ruthlessness she figured existed but hadn’t seen firsthand until tonight.

“Do you all learn how to fight when you’re kids?”

“More or less,” Roman answers, and Solana has a hard time not staring, not being caught up by how handsome this man really is. “This life….it’s kill or be killed. So to not be killed, you learn how to fight. How to survive.”

Survive…

Solana has such a complicated relationship with that otherwise simple word.

“How come….how come you don’t fight as much?” She’s wondered about this, come up with speculation but would like to know for certain, especially as he seems to be in a relatively decent mood.

Like most things, he keeps his answer nice, simple, and vague. “I don’t have anything to prove to anyone.”

“Did–did you?” He looks over at her, and warmth rises back as she tries to clarify. “At some point, I mean.”

Again, it’s a one-worded response. “Yes.”

She’s not entirely sure just what he’s saying ‘yes’ to, but a full blown out explanation was never expected. He doesn’t seem like the type. But something more would have been….nice. Granted, Solana realizes she’s probably pushing her luck in asking all these questions anyway and sits back in her seat, relegating herself to focusing on the current match.

The chill of the arena makes its reminder yet again as Solana crosses her arms over her body, trying to warm herself. The man beside herself notices this, accurately assessing, “you’re cold.”

True to her nature, Solana shakes her head, downplaying the fact that she is very much cold. “I’m fine.”

Downplaying or being outright dishonest is clearly something Solana would do well to push away, because it seems like this man is capable of seeing right through any and all lies.

Roman shifts forward in his seat and removes his jacket, reaching it to her. “Here.”

Rejection would be rude. It would also make her feel even more bad than she already does at inconveniencing him. Still, her options are really singular, meaning there are no others. Only one.

Mustering a small smile, she accepts his objectively kind gesture, sliding her arms through and adjusting as best she can given their size difference. Warmth overcomes her as well as the scent of his collage, something masculine, almost minty. It fits him.

Silence befalls them for a comfortable while before Solana excuses herself to use the bathroom, Roman only nodding in acknowledgment.

It’s in walking down the hall that Solana sees Jade and Bianca chatting away, admiring their championship belts. The taller of the two, Jade, happens to glance her way and smiles, exclaiming, “Girl, you are wearing the hell out of that dress!”

“Absolutely killing it,” Bianca also compliments, her smile just as genuine and affable.

Solana is certain she’s just staring dumbly for a good couple of seconds, because such a compliment from two objectively stunning women towards her was the last thing she expected.

Descending off her shock, she offers an equally genuine smile and expression of appreciation. “Thank you so much.”

The compliment keeps that smile planted on her face. It’s so unexpected but deeply appreciated.

Solana dries her hands and tosses the used paper towels in the trash. It’s a brief glance at herself in the mirror that serves as the start of the slippery slope, landing her back in a brief state of uncertainty. The dress is so revealing, much more revealing than anything she could or would ever wear. But it’s hard to think or sit too much in that discomfort when the night has consisted of several compliments. Sami, Jimmy, Jey, now Bianca and Jade. Not to mention the biggest one, or maybe the one that gives her the most butterflies, coming from Roman.

“Fuck, you look good.”

Her smile shifts from something more silly to something a bit more bashful, her cheeks warming at someone as handsome and powerful as Roman Reigns thinking that she looks good.

Thinking that she’s beautiful.

A toilet flushes from the only other taken stall, and the door opening reveals the perfect reason why Solana should have just went straight back to join Roman instead of having a mental discourse in the bathroom.

Samantha’s long, shapely legs are the first thing Solana notices along with the way her dress melts to her toned, curvy body. She looks good, and she has to know that she looks good. A woman like her probably has men lined up by the dozen, Roman being at the front of that line.

Samantha’s dark lips form into a smirk as she walks over to the sink. “Surprised to see you tonight.” She moves to wash her hands. “After that not so little incident a while back, I figured that was the last day you’d step foot in here.”

Solana swallows. She’s managed to not think about that day since it happened. Samantha bringing it up is definitely salt on an open wound. “I—umm.”

“Nice dress. A lil snug though. Maybe go up a size next time?” Her voice, so sweet and sugary, is also venomous and knowing. “Or two.”

Solana’s hands naturally move to her stomach, forearms trying to block the part of her body she hates the most and is certain Samantha is primarily referring to.

“Sage, right?” She doesn’t give Solana a chance to respond. “Let me give you some advice. Woman to woman.”

Something tells Solana she’s not going to like this advice.

Samantha dries her hands and walks up to Solana. “I know you’re Roman’s wife, but you can’t seriously think that means anything to him, right? It’s just a title, and he’ll defend you only because it’s defending his pride.” Solana tries to not put too much into Samantha’s hurtful words, but it’s hard not to when Solana knows Roman continues to be intimate with this woman, even after their marriage. She can’t blame him for that, though, especially since he’s definitely not getting it from her. Still, it does sting a bit. “Trust me, I’ve known him very well since we were in high school.” Samantha smirks, chuckling. “So, I would know.”

“Bitch, you don’t know shit.”

The last voice Solana expected to enter the conversation was that of Nia’s. But sure enough, Roman’s’ cousin stands near the bathroom door, arms crossed over her body.

Samantha’s expression sours tremendously as she icily greets the other woman, bigger, stronger, maybe even prettier. “Nia.”

Nia ignores the greeting and comes to stand near Solana, immediately going in on the slender women. “If you know him so well and you supposedly mean that much to him, how come it’s not you with a wedding ring on your finger?” Solana says nothing, keeping her gaze down, but it doesn’t stop her from also thinking about that very valid question. Just why didn’t Roman marry Samantha? “Or better yet,” Solana glancing back up allows her to see Nia’s cruel smile. “Why is it Solana’s name he said when he was fucking you?”

What?

Solana is visibly shaken by that because where in the hell did that even come from? There’s no way that can be true. No way Roman could be in bed with someone like Samantha and say her name.

But Samantha is visibly disturbed, lip almost curling into an almost snarl as she spits, “fuck you, Nia.”

“I’d call you Solana too, so I don’t think you’d want that.”

Samantha storms out of the bathroom without another word leaving Solana alone with Nia, Solana who is still trying to process what was just said and finds herself asking Nia.

“Is—is that true? Did you—did you really hear about Roman—ummm—”

Typically, Solana would keep her questions in the safety of her mind, but this…..this feels almost impossible to not seek clarification on.

“You know he’s my cousin, right?” Nia looks visibly disgusted but still answers her question. “I would never make something up like that about family. Samantha is a blabber mouth that doesn’t realize she shares her shit with that dumbass best friend of hers, Tiffy, and the whole town knows.”

The answer is appreciated, but it still leaves Solana with so many questions.

“I—I don’t understand.” Again, it’s something meant to stay inside but manages to slip past the cracks.

“God, you are naive.” Nia rolls her eyes and explains while crossing her arms. “Sweetie, if a man is balls deep in Woman A and says Woman B’s name, Woman A is not who he wants.”

That seems almost inconceivable to Solana. For Roman to think she looks good and maybe even consider her beautiful is one thing, but for him to desire her in that way is something entirely different.

She doesn’t know what to do with this information.

“Don’t let that skinny bitch get to you.” Nia seems eager to switch the conversation to something different. “She’s a pussy. All bark and no bite. Remember, you have the ring on your finger. You just have to put her in her place one good time, and she’ll leave you be. And if not, let Roman know. He’d never hurt or kill her himself, but he’d definitely ask me to, and truth be told, I’ve wanted to snap that bitch’s neck since high school, so you’d be doing everyone a favor.”

Solana can’t allow herself, or maybe more so doesn’t have the capacity, to think about that right now. She’s still trying to get a grip on chapter one. Still, she offers a quiet ‘thank you’ to Nia, turning to leave when the taller woman says her name. Solana turns back around. “Yes?”

Nia sighs and rolls her eyes. “I know you think I hate you, but I don’t. I may hate how soft you are, but I don’t hate you.” Nia then smirks with an almost playful add on of, “I don’t care enough about you to hate you.”

________

As expected, Roman is immediately asking what took so long the second Solana is back in her seat.

Her excuse is weak. She tells him that there was a line, but it’s the best thing she can come up with on the spot. His expression is all the answer she needs that he certainly doesn’t believe her but will let it go.

For now.

The rest of the night seems to be more of a blur, Solana now more consumed with trying to wrap her head around this newest bit of information.

The twins end up finishing off the event with a brutal but successful match where they, as expected, retain their tag team titles.

Solana could see this, understandably, pleased Roman.

And outside of some constructive criticism towards Jey and Jimmy, Roman expressed his desire to leave as soon as they got cleaned up, which took less time than she expected. He’s guiding them, her, out to leave, her hand still in his, when a thickly accented voice calls the attention of the man beside her.

“Roman Reigns.”

Solana can barely turn around to the source of the voice when Roman’s muscled arm is stretched across her body, moving her behind him, his big body serving as an impenetrable shield.

Because of their height difference, Solana can’t see a whole lot outside of the instant shift of security and even the twins toward whoever this person is.

“How wonderful for you to bless us with your presence so soon after WarGames.” The man scoffs, clearly trying to bait Roman. “What is this, the second appearance in how many years? Hell hath fuckin’ froze over.”

Solana catches a brief glance of the mystery man and gasps. He has an imposing figure, similar to Roman but there’s something cold about him, something….sinister.

“How dare you acknowledge the Tribal Chief—” Roman lifts his hand to silence Paul.

Roman simply states, “talk.”

“You know what I want, Reigns.” Solana hears a footstep and notices how Roman makes a subtle movement that results in the twins also moving closer towards her, shielding her from this man. “You don’t deserve that title. You may have been a fighter then, but you ain’t now. You’re about the Bloodline, and I respect that, mate, but the Undisputed title deserves to be with someone who defends it more than once a fucking year.”

“So what, you think you the one who gon’ take it? Man, we outta kill your ass right now for talking out your neck like that to our Tribal Chief!”

Solana hates being unable to see Roman, to see his face, to be able to gauge and read his facial expressions. He’s an enigma of a man, typically oscillating between irritated, angry, and indifferent, but not having the option altogether to know where he currently lands is bothersome. Especially with what comes out of his mouth next.

“Do something.”

Solana freezes. That….that can’t be good.

“You standing up on me. You make a good tough guy face. Do something.”

Solana’s fingers tap against her side, that familiar knotting in her stomach returning. She glances over at Jey who seems to also be a bit confused by Roman’s response.

“Uce—”

Roman ignores him. “Go on. Pull it.”

Jimmy speaks up this time, rough voice quiet but urgent. “Roman, we got Solana here—”

“Come on. Make it happen. What’s different? Ain’t nothing changed. Think back to the last time you challenged me.” Solana hates when Roman moves away from her, because it means he’s a step closer to this man, this man who seems determined to pick a fight with the Tribal Chief and may get just that. “Think about it. I whooped you then. I’ll whoop you now.” Roman speaks with such a confidence about him, the most violent, straightforward promise of sure brutality she’s ever heard from a man. “Ain’t nothing changed.”

Solana isn’t necessarily thinking about what she’s doing when she suddenly moves herself in between Roman and this man who’s apparently hellbent on getting her husband riled up. It’s another unconscious act as she plants her palms against his chest, both relieved and nervous by how his gaze instantly drops to hers.

Solana licks her lips and finds herself pleading in an unexpectedly calm yet typically soft voice. “Let’s just go.” His initial expression of fury and simmering anger seems to lessen the longer he looks at her, and Solana adds on, desperately. “Please.”

This act of boldness is completely unplanned and entirely stems from Solana unable to stop thinking about how Roman being so upset all the time can’t be good for his blood pressure. It can’t be good for his health.

And for reasons she doesn’t quite understand, that bothers her. It concerns her.

Him not being healthy concerns her.

What does not surprisingly concern her is when Roman moves his hands down to her hips and almost gently moves her to the side, forcing her hands to drop. She expects him to lunge at the other man or to scold her for interfering, but he does neither.

He steps toward him and simply states with all the coldness, “you’ve got your match, but I set the date when I want it.” Solana’s more or less holding her breath, waiting for Roman to strike the man, or worse. “But know this, McIntyre, you step in that ring with me again, I’m not just ending your career this time, I’m ending your fucking life.”

Roman’s threat sends uneasy chills down her spine. There’s no mistaking Roman’s promise, something she’s certain he will be sure to fulfill.

He then takes her hand again and moves her to the side opposite of the man who looks like he hates Roman as much as Roman probably hates him. Solana is almost entirely eclipsed by Roman’s big body as he walks her past the ordeal.

The car ride is a bit uncomfortably silent, Solana recognizing that Roman is still seething from the exchange but most likely waiting until she’s out of his vicinity to express that rage.

But, it's when she’s walking back in the house after letting Dulce do her business that Roman catches and speaks to her.

“Solana.” He’s leaning back against the counter, big arms crossed over his muscular body. He’s so….big. “What happened when you went to the bathroom tonight?”

She can’t be surprised, can’t feel caught off guard by his question. It’s still not something she necessarily wants to talk about or knows how to discuss, but she’ll do the best she can.

“I ran into Samantha.” Taking a deep breath, she tries her hardest to keep it vague but still an acceptable answer. “I don’t—I don’t think she likes me.”

At that, Roman nearly growls, “what did that bitch say to you?”

Solana winces at his tone. “It wasn’t that bad…”

He’s quick with the dismissal and redirection. “That’s not what I asked you.”

“She just—she just talked about my outfit, that—that was it, because Nia came in there, and well, I don’t—I think Nia might hate her more than she hates me.”

Roman sighs, running his hand over his face. “I’ll handle Samantha.” Before Solana can protest, he adds, “Nia doesn’t hate you.”

This brings a small smile to Solana’s face. “That's what she said.”

Roman also looks slightly amused by this, studying her for a second. “Solana.” The surprises keep on coming, because he takes an unexpected turn in the conversation. “I almost lost my temper tonight.”

This….this feels true. His issuance of threats were delivered in an almost calm manner, but it was more deceptive than anything. Like a setup for violence that was potentially about to unfold if she didn’t interfere.

Still, nothing ended up happening, so it doesn’t make sense for him to act like it did.

“But, you didn’t,” she points out quietly, offering a bit of an olive branch. “And….you were upset.”

Solana would maybe argue that he’s always in varying states of upsetness, but that’s not the point of the conversation at hand.

“I have no shortage of enemies, Solana.” His voice takes on a darker, almost subdued tone. It makes her previously amused expression slip into something more somber. “But, I need you to know that I would never do anything that would put you in danger. Drew wanted to issue his challenge. That’s it. He wasn’t going to do anything, because he wants an audience for that. I had it under control.” Solana isn’t questioning that nor did she plan to, but Roman’s next question definitely takes her for a loop. “Were you scared?”

It’s a valid, understandable question that she didn’t think about until this moment. There was anxiety, maybe some element of fear but also concern, so she decides to play down the first two.

“I wasn’t scared.” It was more concern than fear, which, in her mind, are two different things. “Just….confused about what was happening.”

“That’s not what I meant.” His dismissal is nicer than what anyone else would receive. “Of me, Solana. Were you scared of me?”

Another valid question that she’s actually been thinking about on and off for the past few weeks. Solana would like to consider herself not naive to a lot of things about this life that she was born into. She knows that most of the people who surround her are killers. And Roman is no different. The king of that, maybe.

But…..

But, he’s done nothing thus far to make her ever believe she would ever be subjected to that side of him. If anything, he’s worked to stress and help her understand that she’d never be hurt by him. And adding up all of the things he’s done to support said message, Solana feels it only appropriate to be honest with him.

About more than just his question.

“When—-when the twins asked earlier today if I wanted to go in the pool, I got nervous because—-” Solana displays her textbook signs of discomfort with the stammering and playing with her fingers but still manages to get out what she wants to share. “Wes, he used to…..hold my head under water until I almost passed out.” Solana looks away for a second, shifting her weight from one foot to another. “That……that’s who I’m afraid of.” Solana manages to set her gaze back on Roman, almost confidently assuring, “I’m not scared of you, Roman.”

He steps toward her, and Solana’s eyes never leave his, mindful of the way his hand lifts, tensing when he rests it against her face, palming her cheek almost gently. Solana stiffens but easily shifts into something not calm but not on edge either. “You don’t have to be scared of him anymore, of anyone. I won’t let anyone else ever hurt you again.”

And for the first time, she believes him without the speck of doubt and uncertainty in the backseat. Solana has seen nothing from the man before her to indicate otherwise. She doesn’t know a lot of things regarding him, regarding them, regarding just why he’s so hellbent on defending her, but one thing she’s realized is that he’s intentional and determined with his dedication to protect her.

This is similar, very similar, too similar to that night where her fears got the best of her, where she was unable to overpower the discomfort and fear. But, this isn’t that night, and Solana doesn’t feel that building dread in the core of her stomach. It could be the fact that it’s only one hand on her, cupping her face. Nowhere else.

It could even be a very early sign that maybe, just maybe, that book she was given so long ago really does have the healing properties someone from so long ago once promised.

There’s even her conversation with Nia from earlier that sits in the back of her mind, the undeniable confirmation of Roman’s attraction to her. Enough to where he would say her name during that.

Whatever the case, she doesn’t move away, just nods quietly, slowly moving away from him.

“I’m—I’m gonna get ready for bed.”

Roman says nothing, also nodding as acknowledgment, watching as Solana grabs Dulce and disappears out of his sight but not the front of his mind.

________

The Reigns estate is as spacious as it is grandiose. There are several ways and paths to reach a destination.

So, Roman doesn’t have to pass Solana’s room to reach his bedroom. There’s an alternative route in coming from where he was working, but he decides this specific way for reasons he’s not entirely sure of.

It ends up being a good decision because it’s in walking past her door that he hears low scraping against said door. Instantly, he knows it’s Dulce clearly needing to go outside. And she confirms as such with her soft whimpering.

Rolling his eyes, Roman opens the door just enough for Dulce to run out, stopping when she sees it’s him. He glances at the bed to see Solana sleeping, open book on her chest, indicating she fell asleep while reading.

Dulce whines again, and he chides quietly, “be quiet before you wake her up.”

Dulce’s ears go down as Roman picks up the puppy that’s still too little to walk up and down the steps, hence needing human transportation. It’s annoying, but he brings her down the steps and out the backyard.

Settling her down, he instructs, “go on. Do whatever you gotta do.”

He’ll give the dog some credit where credit is due. She’s far more obedient than he expected for a puppy, because in less than 10 minutes, she’s emptied her bladder and is being carried back to Solana’s room.

Roman is careful to lay her little ass back in her bed, aware of her bristle looking legs that would probably break with one bad drop.

Rising back to his full height, he catches Solana turning on her side, the shift in position causing the book to slip and almost fall out the bed, but Roman is fast, catching it before the crash and potential disturbance can wake her up.

Naturally, he glances at the front cover, noticing the age of the book. But the aging look doesn’t mean shit to him when he sees the title and a piece of paper that clearly has Solana’s handwriting. He doesn’t read that, wanting to respect her privacy, but he definitely reads the title, and it instantly shifts his entire mood.

The Courage to Heal: A Guide for Women Survivors of Child Sexual Abuse

It shifts his mood from his default state or irritation to quiet rage.

There’s only one reason she would be reading this book, working out of this book. And it’s not that he didn’t already know she’d been violated in one way or another. Her medical records confirmed as such.

But, he was thinking she was a teenager, not any better, but definitely not a fucking child.

Someone hurt her when she was still a child, a literal goddamn kid, and this is something Roman cannot find it in him to avoid investigating. He’s always been a man uncomfortable with unanswered questions, and there are no shortage of them in regards to Solana. Not that he would ever put her in a position to answer them. No. He wouldn’t do that to her, would never make her share something like that with him.

But, he does know someone else he can demand answers from.

Two people, actually. One of them being shit out of luck after narrowly avoiding Roman’s wrath from earlier today in learning that he fucking tortured Solana.

Roman carefully places the book on her nightstand and makes sure Dulce is still in her bed on the other side of Solana’s before quietly closing the door.

Roman is down the hall, powerful strides taking him to his room as he pulls out his phone, dialing the one person he knows for a fact will answer his call at any time. Hitting dial and switching it to speaker, Roman tosses his phone on the bed to get dressed.

Sure enough, he answers on the second ring.

Roman jumps right into it. “Meet me at the Miller house. Get your brothers.”

Solo only pauses for a second, answering in that stoic voice, “we’ll be there in 30.”

Not good enough.

“Make it 20.”

________

As expected, Roman is met at the Miller house by his cousins, all three.

Slamming the car door shut, Roman hears Jimmy yawning loudly. “Man, why the hell is we here?”

Ignoring his older brother, Solo straightens his stance and informs, “I had Pearce disable the security system.”

“Good.” It’s the fact that Solo already knew to do so without being told. Moments like this is when Roman knows he made the right decision promoting and moving Solo up the ranks. He’s more than proved himself.

“I have questions. Miller has answers.” Roman’s answer there is intentionally vague. Solana’s trauma is no one’s business but her own, and just because he is also aware doesn’t mean he needs to broadcast it. “And Solana told me today her brother used to waterboard her.”

“Waterboarding? Like actual fucking torture?” This information seems to awaken both the twins, eliciting angry reactions. “What the fuck is wrong with his ass?”

“We killing them, right?” Jey, forever the hothead and also relatively equal with Roman in terms of how quickly he travels from zero to one-hundred, is the first to ask the most obvious question.

“No. Not tonight. That would be too easy.” And it would. Roman meant that shit when he said he wanted their asses to suffer. “But that doesn’t mean we have to make living easy for them.”

They don’t deserve to live, let alone living easy lives. Not when they’ve done everything seemingly possible to make Solana’s miserable.

Roman then looks towards the twins, instructing, “take care of the brother.” It’s not a necessary directive, but he doesn’t hesitate to add, “make him fucking suffer.”

He then motions for Solo to follow him, the men headed toward the house as Roman swears out loud, “Xavier is mine.”

Roman steps back as Solo waits zero time in shattering the large window in the living room, providing an entrance for the men. Roman grabs his gun, nodding for the twins to move first, followed by Solo, each man armed with a gun. It’s unnecessary, Roman is certain as they’re more likely to find father and son in the midst of illicit acts vs prepared for the onslaught headed their way.

Up the stairs and on the second floor, Roman quietly motions for them to split up, Solo and the twins to the right while he moves to the left, the most likely location of the master.

Solo seems to give him an uneasy expression, but Roman simply nods and heads toward his target.

Xavier is his.

The combination of the brothers works just as Roman predicted, them successfully locating the brother’s bedroom, confirmed by his horrified shout of ‘what the fuck!

It’s followed up with a shout of pain and Jey yelling “Get your bitch ass up!” and “Solo, fill up the tub!”

Pleased, Roman is standing directly outside of Xavier’s door when the older man rips the door open, face contorted in a mixture of shock and anger. That quickly morphs into fear when he realizes just who is responsible for this attack.

Roman brings the gun across upside Miller’s head, watching the man fall down and writhe in pain, holding his hand against his now bleeding head.

Undeterred, Roman reaches down, yanking the man up by his neck as he jolts his body against the nearest wall. “We need to talk.” Straight to the point and not in the mood for any bullshit this fucker may try to spew his way, Roman demands, “I want to know what the fuck happened to my wife.”

And there’s a brief but telltale sign that Xavier knows exactly what he’s referring to without Roman even needing to elaborate.

That only pisses him off even more.

Still, Xavier stutters, shaking his head, “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Roman gives a bitter smile, shaking his head and scratching his beard. It’s the last thing he’s certain Xavier sees before Roman again has him up by the collar of his pajama shirt.

“You really want to play these fucking games with me?” It’s a no. It’s a hell no, but Xavier insulting Roman’s intelligence by lying to him indicates the opposite of no. So, Roman will treat him as such. “Who the fuck touched Solana?”

His question is followed up by screaming coming from down the hall, the beautiful sound of a piece of shit getting exactly what he deserves.

“What? Ain’t so tough now, little bitch! Like to beat on women but a pussy when it comes to fighting another man!”

And while it could bring a smile to Roman’s face, Xavier looks horrified in hearing Jimmy’s taunts. Instantly, he’s pleading, pathetic and pitiful, “pl—please.”

“I’d torture and kill that bitch right in front of you tonight if I could.” It pisses Roman off to no end how this man can care so much about his demented son but not give a flying fuck about his innocent daughter. “Now, answer my fucking question, who touched Solana?”

Again, Xavier decides to test Roman’s patience, offering unasked information. “She—she was a virgin before she married you.”

“I don’t give a fuck about her being virgin or not!” She could still be a virgin and have been touched. But truth be told, that shit’s never mattered to him anyway. Virgin or no virgin, it’s always been an irrelevant deciding factor to who he took to bed. “Tell me what happened to her or I’ll blow that bitch son of yours fucking brains out right in front of you—”

Roman pulls the gun from out of the back of his pants, knowing full and well that while he would love to empty the entirety of it in the scum before him, it’s better served torturing him in another sort of manner.

Mentally.

And it does the trick.

“Alright, alright!” Xavier finally caves, sweat bubbling across his wrinkled forehead. “She was raped, alright? Two men broke into the house when she was 12 and attacked her. Beat her real bad. They—they never found them. Okay? That—that’s the truth. That’s what happened.”

No. Not fucking okay. Nothing is fucking okay. Roman wanted answers, felt like he needed them, but knowing the truth, it doesn’t do shit but paint his vision red.

He knew something happened to her.

He just didn’t know how bad.

Raped.

Beaten.

Twelve.

And then another thought hits him, the absolute terror on her face that day when she was faced with what should be the most simplest thing for a person: going into their childhood bedroom.

Roman remembers her fear, the dried blood, the scratches on the wall.

It all makes sense.

She was attacked in her fucking bedroom.

The thought of a child being hurt at all has never sat right with him, but to be hurt in that way. As a child, and for that child to have been Solana.

He’s fucking breathing rage.

“Where the fuck were you, huh?” Roman jerks his body back against the wall, half ready to break this fucker’s neck. “Answer me!”

“I wasn’t home!” Xavier’s sweating has progressed into droplets from his forehead onto the bridge of his nose and shirt. “I—I was out on a fishing trip with Wes.”

A fishing trip…..

This man was out enjoying fucking nature with his dimwitted offspring while his daughter was at home alone fighting for her fucking life.

“You left a 12 year old home alone?” It keeps getting fucking worse. “How long was she alone!” Roman is fully prepared to risk snapping this motherfucker’s neck when he spits out a desperate answer.

“A week. It was just a week.” And if it makes a fucking difference, he desperately adds on, “I—I’d done it before, and she was fine.”

Xavier is either stupid or very stupid, because Roman can’t conceptualize how this imbecile would think the additional information makes it any better.

Solana was hurt.

She was hurt in the worst way possible, and it’s all his fault.

With all of the aggression in his body, Roman throws the piece of shit across the room, intentionally aiming for the glass coffee table that instantly shatters under the weight of his fat ass.

Without a second of fucking hesitation, Roman fires two shots directly into Xavier’s body, one in his right hand and the other in his left foot. Xavier’s shouts of pain do little to dull the unadulterated rage coursing through Roman’s body.

Shouts morph into tiny, pathetic whimpers as Roman slowly walks through the broken glass, tossing his gun to the side as he pulls out the brass knuckles in his back pocket.

“I told Solana I wouldn’t kill you until she gave me the word, and I’m not going to take that from her.” He crouches down besides the now crying older man, crying in the way Roman is certain Solana did when she was alone and helpless. His fury is practically bubbling over now as he coldly vows, “but that doesn't mean I can’t make your life a living fucking hell until then.”

________

Roman walks back into the house with a weight he can’t shake, even with the brutal carnage he unleashed on the Miller household, leaving father and son on the brink of death. That type of violent release typically abates his anger, and it did diminish a lot of it, seeing that piece of shit pummeled into a bloody, broken mess.

But Roman is still plagued with thoughts of the hell Solana endured living in that household. To be attacked in that way in her own home, in her fucking bedroom, it makes Roman want to get right back in his SUV and carry Xavier and his equally piece of shit over the doorstep of death.

But, he couldn’t do that to Solana, take that away from her. He’s just the executioner in this situation. He’ll let the day of reckoning be determined by her because that’s the least she can get.

Coming straight back home, Roman didn’t bother to stop and get himself cleaned up. His guards have seen much worse, and Solana is asleep, so that’s not a concern either.

But, it is a concern because in an almost scene of deja vu, Solana is most certainly not asleep. She’s sitting on the sofa, Dulce right beside her when she hears his heavy footsteps.

Roman doesn’t have time to say anything, too stunned by this happening yet again, even later than he’s returned before.

Why is she up?

Solana jumps up off the sofa and is suddenly standing across from him, her face painted in what’s obviously a moderate to tremendous amount of worry and anxiety.

But, she isn’t looking at him. Not really. She’s more so focused on the blood stained and splattered clothes that adorn him.

“You’re hurt…..” He’s heard her say it the last two times they were in this type of situation, eerily similar in a lot of ways, but this time….this time is different.

It’s different because she rushes over to him, her hand floating over his chest, one place, two place, another place. Like a plane trying to find a safe space to land, she’s unsure where he’s hurt and clearly overwhelmed by it all.

And then he sees it, the blurry overlay of water over her eyes and the slight tremble of her lip.

Roman steps towards her, trying to be respectful of the distance between them. Her discomfort with touch makes all the sense now. “Please don’t cry.” And this is yet another new, unfamiliar, unexposed territory for him, seeing her so distraught at her belief that he’s been hurt. The way that the thought alone clearly wrecks her.

Roman quickly notices the changing of her breathing pattern, heavier, rhythmic almost.

“Shit…..”

Roman has heard this song before.

Realizing this is a matter of de-escalation, he does what’s needed in the moment and brings his hands to her face, cupping her face.

“Solana, breathe, baby.” The term of adoration isn’t even something that really registers with him at the moment, not an intentional addictive or something he gives two fucks about in this moment, really. He’s solely focused on settling the woman in front who’s on the brink of a panic attack.

He can’t see her deal with that again, especially now that he knows just why she had the first one.

Roman has no hesitation in pushing away loose strings of her hair, never once taking his focus off her. “I’m fine, Solana. I’m not hurt. It’s not my blood.” Recognizing she clearly needs to see it, he moves back to lift and toss his shirt on the floor. “See?”

And that seems to do something for her, something to help settle the panic.

Roman watches her and forces himself not to think about the heat that fills him at her hand on his chest, over his heart. It’s all so innocent. Recognizing her breathing has settled into something less alarming and more familiar, he moves his hand over hers, reiterating once more, “I’m fine.” He waits for her to finish taking a deep breath to ask, “why are you up?”

This has to be the third time Roman has come home at an ungodly hour to find her waiting for him, and he’s trying to figure out what the real reason is.

She licks her lip, clearly working her way up to a response. “Dulce had to…..had to use the bathroom, and I saw you weren’t here, and you didn’t answer my text.” Roman curses himself. He was so caught in his uproar that he didn’t even bother checking that thing, never expecting for Solana to be the missed notification on his lock screen. “I just…..I wanted to make sure you were okay.” Roman has heard this part before and tries to navigate how he wants to push back on his belief that it can’t be just that, but Solana surprisingly beats him to it. “I get….I get worried when you’re not here at night and—-and I can’t sleep until—-”

“Until I’m back….”

He has a good guess why. She was attacked in the middle of the night, and he’s also pretty certain he remembers reading that the attack that killed her mother also happened at night.

“Solana…..” For the first time in a while, if ever, Roman is active in his attempts to explain this to her as gently as he can. “What I do…who I am…I can’t always be here.”

“I know,” she sniffles. “I’m sorry—I don’t mean to bother you—”

“You could never bother me, okay?” He wipes away more of her tears, hand back to cupping her face, realizing she’s not going to pull away from him this time. He takes full advantage of that. Roman moves his other hand to the small of her back, holding her against him. It’s not missed upon him how she also brings her other free hand to his chest. “But, I always make it back, alright?” She nods, as he runs his thumb over the apple of her cheek. “Can’t no man put me down.”

She smiles, a little laugh that does more to him than he’d like to admit, that he feels comfortable with. And this settles him. It settles him more than nearly killing her dad and brother for hurting her, directly and indirectly, did.

Solana nods, murmuring a quiet, “o–okay.”

He’s studying her. Closely. Maybe more than what’s necessary. It comes from a place of concern, and he’d admit as such. “Are you good now?”

She nods again, and he believes it enough to let her go, watching her start to walk away when he’s caught off guard again because of her body, so soft and warm, against his again. Her sweet perfume filling his senses, her arms around his neck.

She’s hugging him. Solana is actually hugging him. He can’t remember the last time someone did that shit.

But he doesn’t waste a second of time accepting her embrace that seems to end just as quickly as it began. He can’t be surprised or upset. This is big for her, obviously, and he would never push her past her comfort zone, but he also can’t deny that the absence of her in his arms is noticeable.

And uncomfortable.

Solana murmurs a rushed goodnight and grabs Dulce to head back up the stairs, Roman eyes never leaving her until she’s completely out of view.

Roman stands there for a few good minutes, unsure of what just happened, working to process the same unfamiliar feelings that coursed through him the last time they had a moment like this. It’s the same as before, just ten times stronger, more intense, more consuming.

Unsure of a lot, two things he knows for asbolute fucking certain:

He’s going to find Solana’s rapists and make them pay for every sick fucking thing they did to her.

There’s not a fucking force on earth that could take this girl away from him.

She’s his.

And he’ll protect her with everything in him.

No matter what the cost.

#roman reigns x black!oc #roman reigns fic #roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns x poc!oc #roman reigns x reader #arisnotebook

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