#professional wrestling training

[somekindagaydog-blog]

Wrestling is such a fascinating art form:

Stories told over decades playing out in real time, some written ahead, some improvised, some just coming naturally. Told through the movements of the performers in the ring, a portion of which is made up on the spot. A story telling form that would seem to limit what performers can do, but with characters that insist on pushing up against the walls of reality. In wrestling you will find legit hardman chopping the hell at each other, who will tire of the squared circle and move inside a cage to beat up actual martial artist, only to return years later as an unstoppable beast (this has happened multiple times)

You have losers who don't look like the protypical wrestler, but power through regardless and excel showing how far passion can bring you.

You have people who are willing to put their body through insane feats of endurance, showing incredibly pain tolerances.

You have demons, deadmen, and fiends, all represented by performers who understand how much of being a character is expressed not by your words, but also by how you hold yourself.

You have a medium that allows a person to depict their frustrations and failures through their career in the form of them as a children's tv show host, surrounded by puppets representing all moments in his career, with his frustration manifesting in a being so powerful that the writing team had difficulty figuring out how to book him.

When you watch wrestling live you're watching two performers who have been given the scaffold of a script and were told to fill in the blanks and make it work with their character. They are performing live stunts and worked combat on a 4 sided stage. It's not always good, which is understandable given how much it encompasesses, but when it's good I don't want to look away.

Wrestling is just one of those things i'll never stop enjoying.

Everyone should be able to have a living, but one of the things that really draws me in is the fact that a lot of these guys early on aren't making much, to the extent that a common expression is "a hotdog and a handshake". The people who are doing this are doing dangerous feats not for the money but because they are passionate about it.

A phrase I've heard a lot when people talk about training for professional wrestling is trying to acheive that "boy/girlhood dream" and I think more people should try to live out their dreams.

[joshgerry]

Goals.

In pro wrestling (and life), it's important to have goals.

Something to work for.

Something to compare success to.

A measuring stick or blueprint for the end game.

But don't have just a singular lofty goal. You need short and medium-term goals, too. Because if you never reach your main goal or have steps to take along the way, it seems so far and hard.

If your goal is to work for WWE, make that the main goal. The endgame.

Then have a short team goal of being booked at least once every weekend.

Then maybe a medium goal of working in 3 different states by year end.

Accomplish those? Then, make another short and medium goal that will help you reach the main goal.

Set up goals and tear through them.

Having goals is the first step.

Having a plan to achieve those goals is the next.

[hostilecityshowdown]

the amount i need modern wrestling fans to study the von erichs until they're able to point at other wrestlers and go "i know where they learned that" is unreal

[could-they-be-a-pro-wrestler]

[yandere-daydreams]

tw - implied non/con, mentions of physical/psychological abuse, obsessive behavior, delusional thoughts, and kidnapping.

Alhaitham is strict.

He's a man of science. He believes that obedience is something that has to be trained, not taught, and that the only way to properly train any thinking, breathing creature is through the continuous and uniform use of punishment to discourage undesired behavior and with-holding of reward until desired behavior is not only seen, but repeated. His rules are firm and unchanging, and when he catches you, say, hoarding mora underneath a lose floorboard or trying to mail a letter of poorly coded pleas for help to a former peer, he feels no guilt as he wrestles you over his knee and delivers a strike for each spare coin he found in your little collection, each word you wasted on someone other than your loving caretaker. He values your intelligence, and that's why he knows you can live up to his suffocating, but not particularly high expectations. He's strict, but really, it's for your own good.

Kaveh is soft.

As soft as crushed velvet and flower petals and down-stuffed pillows. As soft as crumpled silk and grass on a warm day and his heart, whenever you thread your fingers through his and ask so prettily for him to let you go. His greatest in the world is to make you happy, and it pains him to know that, so long as he continues to be so selfish with your affection, you won't be. He'd do anything for you - bring you gems and flowers from each distant corner of the world, dedicate himself entirely to your every whim and desire, carve his own heart from his chest and lay it at your feet - but he knows you truly want is out of his reach. Kaveh is soft - soft enough that, no matter how much it hurts him to see you suffering, he knows the pain of letting you go would destroy him entirely.

Cyno is sweet.

Even if he will admit to taking a certain amount of satisfaction bringing the cruel blade of justice down on those who've earned it most, he's not a sadist, and you've done little in your life to deserve anyone's cruelty. When he does have to hurt you, it's done with remorse, and when he has no reason to, he does not often pretend he has any desire to find one. His affection is silent, but sickeningly apparent. It's expressed through rose blossoms left on your bedside table, trinkets that made him think of you tucked into the pockets of your clothes, the phantom of his lips against your neck - never quite making contact but never drifting away, either. He holds you when you cry, despite being the reason for your distress, and when you beg him for space, he never seems to go very far. He's sweet, even if the tenderness of his love is lost on you.

Tighnari is subtle.

He knows who he is. He knows how he feels about you. He knows that, if he were to chain you up in his hut and do every terrible thing he's imagined, it'd be less than a full hour until you were liberated from his loving embrace and his head was liberated from his shoulders. He has to be more careful than that, more discrete, even if it means spending the better part of one of his few days off piecing together a mix of herbs and serums tasteless enough to be slipped into water and strong enough to ensure you won't wake up the first time he drives his fangs into your skin. Even his more daring moments are limited to a hand ghosted over the small of your back, a strange insistence that he should be the one to look after you when your strange, unnamable illness resurfaces and you inevitably need a professional's time and care. He's subtle - so much so that even you won't know just much he's willing to do to love you.

[evilminji]

Ya'll remember Ace? Bat-hound?

No WAY Cujo became a Ghost and He did not.

Is he a little lost? Maybe. This is not his beautiful home. This is not his beautiful, maladjusted, Bat Family. Who are you people!? Where IS he!? This place is FAR to cheerful and green to be Gotham!

But he is Bat-Hound. A PROFESSIONAL. A HERO. He can handle this. He just has to track his humans down... through... whatever this is. If Krypto can fly, bless his mostly empty, hyperactive head, then so could he! It can't be THAT har-*Thwonk!*

.....no one saw that.

But what's this? A helpful young pup? Cujo you say. Ah, he too, was once a gaurd dog. Cujo, lad, he seems to be lost. Could you...? You WILL! Fantastic. But wait? You're worried about your Young Human?

*Bat Concern Rising* *Doggy eye squint*

WHY?

*cujo spills the frankly horrifying beans about Danny's home life*

.........ha ha, NOPE! We can be having THAT! He's coming too! Bruce LOVES young humans! Especially sassy ones. He'll adopt him in no time! You grab the older one's, I'll grab the baby. Then we can head home, yes? You'll love gotham! Plenty of scoundrels to chase!

Cut to the Bat family. Damian is training Titus in the yard. Rare sun-ish day. It's a cook out. The Kent's are over. When?

Titus and the Supers both perk up. You hear that? Somethings about to-

*reality RIPS* *Ace the Bat Hound, dead for over a decade, jumps through... THE SIZE OF A HORSE. He is holding a struggling small preteen girl in his mouth* *Splat*

He dropped her. Eeeeeeew! She is loudly protesting. There is a SECOND dog. Green. Two more teens, clearly related to the first. Dumped on Bruce's lawn.

Ace looks proud of himself. Shrinks to normal size and pads over. Plops down in front of Bruce like he'd never left, tail wagging. Still in costume. He's glowing.

The burgers burn on the grill. No one can bring themselves to notice or care. Damian is elated. Krypto is fly wrestling is bestest buddy. Bruce is having a nervous breakdown over his dead dog.

Clark is calling their co-workers and trying to STOP the nervous break down.

Lois is just feeding the strage kids the dogs brought. Asking some casual "I'm totally not an investigative reporter" type questions. Who wants chips? Have a towel.

Ace? Is a Good Boy. 🐶

@hypewinter @hdgnj @nerdpoe @ailithnight

[monzamash]

off the record — lando norris

"the line between personal and professional was already so blurred; so incomprehensibly faint that anyone looking in would have to squint to see it." lando norris x you (femreader) | 2.1k rating – 18+ (sex, coarse language, drug references) masterlist

The media pen was mayhem after what had been an eventful morning on track. Cameras hoisted every which way, journalists vying for their chance to get front row. And then there was you; little old you trying your best to muscle into every nook and cranny available, wrestling with the big boys and girls. You were a bit of a hot shot now, rising through the ranks online as a media personality and bringing it to the stalwarts of mainstream media.

And you were good – really good. An exceptional storyteller and an extractor of sorts when it came to getting the scoop, something you had honed in on during your days working freelance before eventually realising your potential. Somehow, you’d made it here. Reporting for Sky Sports. Coming to you live from Monaco. Dream shit.

“Lando Norris…” You started, microphone locked and loaded in front of the sweaty, nonchalant McLaren driver.

“Felt like you left a little bit out on track in practice this morning. P10 – where do you think you can get the car in qualifying this afternoon?”

“P1 obviously,” Lando quipped, chewing through his comically large drinking straw in an attempt to hide his smirk. Mocking.

“Yeah?”

“What do you reckon?” He asked, leaning forward ever so slightly with a mischievous glint in his eye that had you rolling yours.

You shrugged, “Wouldn’t count the McLaren car out, that’s for sure.”

“The car and…” Lando smirk widened, lips still pursed and baiting.

“The driver too? Maybe?” Dickhead.

“Maybe that too…” You gave in with a sigh, eliciting a wide smile from the man standing in front of a gaggle of reporters, waiting for your next question with snickering expressions.

“So high expectations going into quali then?”

It had always been like this with Lando from the moment you stuck your little hand held recorder in his face at Bahrain last year to now. He knew he could wind you up and find levity in whatever situation he found himself in at the end of a session – good or bad. It was always a friendly back and forth between journalist and driver. Harmless banter to make the monotony of the media pen just that little bit more bearable. Professional, until it wasn’t.

“The flirting is getting out of hand,” You whispered into his kiss, teeth clashing, hands fumbling as you fell back on your hotel bed with a huff.

“But you look so fucking cute asking me questions like that,” He growled in retort, hands making quick work of the jeans clinging to your hips – the ones that had been taunting him all day.

Everywhere he turned he saw you swaying from side to side, aching to have this moment with you now.

“Well duh,” You quipped confidently, eyes fluttering shut as his feverish lips ghosted above the damp patch of excitement between your thighs. Focus.

“But it has to stop.”

“Oh you want me to stop right now?”

“I’m not talking about…” You stopped mid-sentence when you caught the mischievous glimmer in Lando’s eyes, lips pulled into a smirk, “Okay, fuck you.”

“You love it,” He breathed out in barely a whisper, leaving a trail of marks down the inside of your thigh before finally giving you what you were waiting for. 

“And don’t pretend like the thought of me going down on you when you’re asking me those silly little questions doesn’t turn you on.”

Well he fucking had you there.

Lando punctuated his point with a long, teasing stripe to your cunt before burying himself between your thighs, only coming up for air when you tugged on his curls and demanded a kiss. He knew how you were, how needy and insatiable you could be. This was a thing now; a god forsaken mistake in Australia that had turned into a runaway train. Neither of you could stop it.

“I can’t live without this.”

The desperation spilled from your mouth in a guttural moan as you titled you hips upwards and let the twisted knots in the depths of your stomach unravel. The sight of you thrashing in pleasure below knocked the wind out of Lando, eyes and mind focused solely on fucking you through your high so perfectly, fingers bruising the buttery flesh of your thighs.

“God – fuck…” He could barely breathe, “Don’t – you don’t have to.”

And with one last pump, he was coming into the condom he’d slipped on without you even knowing. It was second-hand now, muscle memory and so fucking good. But it didn’t start that way – no, it was awkward goodbyes and a cold ‘thanks for that’ which made you regret ever answering your hotel door. The situation had changed in the blink of an eye – now he was lingering, kissing you in places that had you melting into the mussed sheets and begging him to stay a little bit longer.

It was pathetic how reliant you’d become and how distant you could be when he had to leave. The leaving part was the thing that changed and had you questioning all of it. It used to be that you could go shower and come back to an empty bed and not even flinch. Four months of he is just a causal fuck, no hard feelings to now not being so stoic on that sentiment but you wouldn’t admit that. Not to yourself and especially not to the man peering down at you – all lazy smiles and dimples and ocean eyes. You were fucked.

“I gotta go,” Lando whispered, brushing the stray strands of hair from your flushed face, pout present and needy.

“You don’t really though.”

“If I don’t go now I’ll never leave.”

The little voice in your head was monologuing – screaming out all of the reasons why he should stay because maybe deep down that’s what you wanted. But you couldn’t have that. The line between personal and professional was already so blurred; so incomprehensibly faint that anyone looking in would have to squint to see it. It was the devil on your shoulder that tormented you when it came to Lando, pushing the boundaries more and more every time you had him in your clutches. Risking it all.

“Kiss me before you go.”

And he did. Passionately, like a man in love because maybe he was. Maybe he had been for a lot longer than he’d realised – somewhere between Miami and now he let his guard down too far, too soon. You were flawless though, unattainably perfect that he couldn’t be blamed for falling victim to your allure – sharp eyes following you around the paddock, wishing he was the little notebook in your back pocket that garnered all your attention on race weekends.

“See you tomorrow?”

“If you’re lucky,” Lando quipped, knowing he would be the one curled up in his cold, lonely bed for the rest of the night waiting impatiently for tomorrow.

In any other circumstance you would think the two of you were like magnets, drawn together amongst the travelling circus that was your workplace. But you had a job to do and that was to seek out drivers and team principals, digging deep for any story you could find. There was a trust that you’d built with the teams, all of them respected your work and knew that you weren’t malicious; in fact you were the opposite.

“I really appreciate you not writing about my drunkenness last weekend… It wasn’t my finest moment unfortunately.”

Oscar was a rookie driver but also a total sweetheart, who admittedly had found himself in a precarious late night adventure in a Miami nightclub post-grand prix. How he ended up that drunk, you had no idea but you saved him from himself with the help of Lando, who Oscar would’ve thought was suspiciously close by if he wasn’t black out drunk.

“I got you, buddy but I think your Australian citizenship might have to be revoked after an effort like that… Very disappointing,” You teased in jest, both smiling into the blistering Monacan sun as you walked side by side into the paddock.

“I woke up with an L on my forehead which I can only assume Lando put there so I think my ego’s bruised enough thank you very much.”

“Oh yeah,” You cringed, “That might’ve been my eyeliner.”

“Is that right…”

Oscar’s tone was laced with suspicion but before he could quiz you on why you were still there that night and that he had started to notice the budding friendship between you and his teammate, he was being whisked away by one of his McLaren publicists. You were thankful that they'd taken his curious questions away – how the tables had turned.

Lando was watching you wander through the paddock behind his dark sunglasses, as had been the trend all weekend. Every time you glanced around he was there, wondering if he could sneak over and say hello. Sure, you were friends with a few of the drivers outside of work but when you stepped over that white line, the barriers of professionalism came up again. They had to, otherwise you would end up in a situation like this – gawking at someone you shouldn’t be.

But god he looked good.

He wore what he knew was your biggest weakness – a backwards cap and the black denim jacket he slung over your shoulders on that dark, stormy night in London a few weeks ago when Imola was cancelled and you needed a fix. Hotel hook-ups only. And all of this had you asking yourself, how on earth could you deny a good morning from the man who was the subject of your every desire?

“Good morning.”

“Well it’s not a bad one,” You smiled, more energised than Lando who was yawning into the crook of his arm, “Late night?”

He loved it when you did that. Sneaking little inside jokes into seemingly innocent conversation, naughty reminders of the nights you shared together when nobody was watching. The cheeky grin tugging on his lips a definite tell-tale that he enjoyed it – the tells getting easier and easier to spot the more you got to know him. A shiver ran down your spine at the thought that maybe he was into this as much as you. Little did you know.

“Yeah just squeezed in a late cardio sesh – you know how it is…”

A soft ahh slipped from your smirking lips, eyes trained on your path ahead as Lando strolled alongside, “What’s on the agenda today?”

You shrugged, half out of genuine cluelessness and the other half deflecting how nervous you were. Working in the media was your dream but walking through the hallowed halls of a sport you had loved for your entire life and that dream coming true made your stomach churn with every emotion under the sun. Especially in Monaco.

“You nervous?” Lando asked quietly, shaking you from your thoughts and panicked that you were talking out loud.

“Huh? Oh…” You waved him off and chuckled, “No – I mean, yeah but I always feel like this on race morning… But obviously you’re probably a lot more nervous than me so it’s nothing…” You were a stuttering mess and all Lando wanted to do was reach out and give you a hug.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t. This was your little secret, a delicious secret that only the two of you knew and he didn’t want to ruin that. Instead, he dug his hands into his jean pockets a little deeper and gave you a reassuring nudge. Shoulder to shoulder, the same way you laid together the night before after what could only be described as the best sex of your life. Lives.

“My mum always said that nerves mean you care,” Lando’s voice was lower than before – a seriousness taking over, “You’ll do great, as always.”

“Thank you,” You matched his tone, “Hopefully I’m interviewing Lando Norris, Monaco Grand Prix winner…”

That’s all you really wanted deep down. Not the breaking story of the weekend or the drama surrounding contract talks at Red Bull. Just for the guy you had grown profoundly fond of to have some semblance of good luck for once. He’d worked hard for it, you’d seen it first hand and you’d seen the heartbreak when things weren’t going his way. Alas, that was what started this whole situation – frustrated post-race sex. Chef’s kiss.

Lando simply rolled his eyes and sighed loudly before leaning in a tiny bit closer than what you considered a safe workplace distance, “Kiss for good luck then?”

“Get the fuck out of here!” You laughed, kicking his calf with your platform boot as his infectious cackle of a laugh echoed through the growing crowd.

You watched him disappear somewhere between the motorhomes, searching for his team. The lingering feeling in your stomach made you slightly nauseous and a little excited for the next run-in with him. It was like a game of cat and mouse and you weren’t sure who was who but you liked it. More than you wanted to admit because he was Lando fucking Norris – f1's most eligible bachelor, the naughty boy from Bristol, all curls and dimples and undeniable charm. You couldn't help but wonder how many others he had wrapped around his finger like you.

He's just a casual fuck, you mumbled under your breath as you flicked open your notebook and got to work.

masterlist | askbox

[vintagegeekculture]

The Hall of Amazing Men: Branscombe Richmond

A new admission to the Hall of Amazing Men, Branscombe Richmond is best known for being an actor where he played Lorenzo Lamas’s friend, the Lando Calrissian-like sharpie Dallas Sixkiller, or as Moki, the smartmouth Hawaiian friend of Magnum, P.I. But behind the camera, as a tough as nails stunt coordinator and stuntman, Branscombe Richmond created and developed nearly all the eccentric and eye catching events in the TV series American Gladiators: Atlasphere (the one where people roll around in giant balls), Powerball (done simply because they needed a sport that could be created cheaply because they ran out of money for development) and all the various ones where musclemen shoot tennis balls at people, and where you have to avoid muscular women by jumping on a bungee cord. I don’t think it would be inaccurate to say that with his development (on a really thin budget, no less) of memorable, eye catching sports and events that, with his stunt training he knew could be done safely enough so that even kinda-sporty housewives from Illinois could do them without injury, Branscombe Richmond created American Gladiators. He turned an idea into a realized, practical show that can be done – I don’t think it is inaccurate at all to call him the uncredited creator of American Gladiators.

In his career as a stuntman, Branscombe Richmond, meanwhile, is another one of those faces that shows up over and over playing evil henchmen, members of motorcycle gangs in rough biker bars the hero brawls with karate (if there’s ever a rough scummy biker bar out there, you can bet Branscomb Richmond is in it), and hordes of nunchaku wielding ninja, to the point where if you are, like me, an 80s-90s action aficionado, his face makes you go “oh, hey…it’s that guy!” Can you really call yourself an action fan if you don’t start identifying “your” evil henchman? His IMDB page is mostly roles that are named “Gunman In Jeep,” "Biker #2," and "Terrifying Clown."  

If there is a Evil Henchman Hall of Fame, Brandscomb is there alongside the great Al Leung. You can spot his face as a henchman in Never Too Young to Die (with John Stamos), Action Jackson, Batman Returns, the Hidden, Iron Eagle III: Aces High (objectively the best one as it had Ms. Olympia Rachel McLish), and Star Trek III, where he was a Klingon henchman to Christopher Lloyd who almost got disintegrated and had to feed his disgusting slimy monster dog-salamander. It's comforting to know the profession of henching is alive and well 300 years in the future.

On television, Brandscomb Richmond was on every single cool show from the 80s: Tales of the Gold Monkey, TJ Hooker, Manimal, Airwolf, Knight Rider, Baywatch, and many times attempted to kill the A-Team, especially from motorcycles. Like Chiba, another stuntman-actor, Branscombe Richmond specialized in motorcycle stunts, and he was admitted to the Motorcycle Hall of Fame in 2003. He is, to this day, the guest of honor at whatever motorcycle rally your embarrassing hick uncle attends. I have no evidence for this, but I have long suspected that the reason Richmond was hired to be Dallas Sixkiller in Renegade with Lorenzo Lamas was so they could get his unpaid advice on motorcycle stunts (much like how I have always suspected Warner Brothers hired Ben Affleck as Batman as a "backdoor" way to ask him to direct).

He also played the older brother of the Rock in the Scorpion King, which is an interesting choice because despite getting roles as American Indians (and being beloved in the American Indian community, who, as a whole, deeply love characters who are smartmouth, wiseass sharpies/scammers who get one over on everyone), Brandscome Richmond is in fact, like the Rock, of Hawaiian origin. His first major role in television, that of Moki in Magnum PI, was in fact Hawaiian.

Why are there so many Pacific Islanders in stuntman careers, MMA, and professional wrestling? The answer is surprisingly pedestrian. It’s because Pacific Islanders are a sizable ethnic population in Los Angeles, where movies and television are made, so if you need someone in L.A. that are tough as nails and can take a hit, a Samoan or Hawaiian is a good choice.

Happily, Branscombe Richmond is alive and well, mostly retired as a traditionally large Hawaiian family patriarch. He does occasional voice work, as Gibraltar in Apex Legends, a character physically based on him as well. I imagine he is relieved to be working in showbiz and no longer risking brain damage to do it.

[francis-writes]

A/N: I love this request, there's nothing better than inherent subtextual eroticism of fighting together and trying to kill each other (Fr it's good for all kinds of bonding; i spent a year learning judo and self-defense and there's something real about friendship and trust between two people who every week throw each other on the floor, strangle each other and twist each other's arms)

you knew how to fight, at least the basics. Enough to defend yourself, but there's never too much fighting skills in this dangerous world. Especially when you live on Giedi Prime

When you asked Feyd if he could teach you (after all he was a famous warrior), he immediately agreed. He enjoyed every occasion to fight and even if he wasn't going to kill you or maim you, the idea of training together still made him happy (and turned on). It's just two his favourite things mixed together: you and violence

Your training together included many things; building your strength and stamina, wrestling barehand, fighting with many weapons (mostly knives but also iron bars, whips, swords etc)

No matter how much affection he holds for you, he's a teacher with high standards so don't count on any special treatment. He attacks you, like he would attack his real opponent and if you don't have good enough reflex, then next time act faster. He won't hurt you (more than a few scratches and bruises) but Feyd points out every time you make a mistake

Even if you are tired or not in the mood, he kinda forces you to it, just like Gurney Halleck forces Paul. It's well-meaning, considering that danger doesn't choose a moment when you're perfectly relaxed and full of energy

When you get better, he offers you a fight with a drugged up prisoner. What you say to that is up to you

NSFW: even though he's a professional warrior and these lessons taught you a lot, they really often ended up in sex (not even in the bedroom, poor servants had later more trouble with cleaning floor od training room than usual). It was enough that during fight he pressed you to the floor. Or you put a knife to his throat. Or you got scratched and started bleeding (he will immediatelylick that blood off). That's why Feyd can never took you to war.

[somekindagaydog-blog]

Did a spike bump the other day and by that I mean I got way to excited doing a front bump and sold it like i died.

[joshgerry]

Social Media is one of the most powerful tools for anyone in the professional wrestling industry.

But it is one I see often squandered because it is under-utilized, mismanaged, misused, and abused.

Join me on September 22nd, from 1-4pm at the AML Pro Wrestling Training Center and we will go over how to properly market yourself, and your brand, to exponentially boost your online presence, and increase followers, bookings, and engagement.

I've learned quite a few tips, tricks, strategies, and techniques over the years.

I currently run a few pro wrestling brand social media channels and have completed coursework from HubSpot, Facebook, and more.

I'm eager to share all of this information with everyone. I've found the best way to help pro wrestling be better, is by making the people IN IT better.

📢: Pro Wrestling Workshop: Social Media Marketing and Mastery w/ Coach Josh Gerry

📆 : Sunday, September 22nd

⏰️: 1pm - 4pm

📌: AML Pro Wrestling Training Center

4421 N. Cherry St. Suite 50

Winston-Salem, NC

🎟: $20 per person

[trippinsorrows]

looking through your eyes + four

authors note: hi! thank you so much for everyone who has left such kind words for this story! i'm so appreciative for the support and interest!

this one, i think, depicts a lot of contradicting thoughts and feelings for our two favorite characters. that's intentional.

i also take some creative liberties with medical and wrestling shit. let's just go with it, friends, por favor.

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

cw/tw: language, violence, sexual harassment, hints at past self-harm, allusions to past suicide attempt, references to traumatic pasts

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

words: 10k

Roman has spent years coming home to a dark, empty house. It’s been his preference for just as long, enjoying the isolation following day after day of shit that needs to be handled. Because that’s usually how shit plays out for him. Roman’s always calling the shots, always figuring out how to navigate difficult, sticky situations. 

It's just what he does.

It’s why he’s been able to advance the Bloodline as much as he has. Because Roman is a man playing professional chess among a group of elementary checker players.

And he’d never voice or admit it to anyone, but the weight does sometimes get to him in one way or another. So, he’s learned to appreciate solitude. 

But he’s not met with solitude upon entering his home, which is both surprising and irritating considering it’s pushing 2 o’clock in the morning.

The only sound he should hear is the sound of his heavy footsteps from the front door to the bedroom. Instead, his feet carry him into the source of said sounds that are more pots banging and dishes being washed.

That’s how he immediately knows who it is without needing to check. But, Roman is more curious as to why she’s in the damn kitchen at this time of night instead of sleeping than the noise itself.

And he goes to ask as such when he gets even closer and realizes there’s more to the sound than clanging pots and running water. A soft, melodic, almost soothing voice singing in a language he doesn’t understand but recognizes as Spanish. 

Solana is singing, and she’s singing well, beautiful even. So much so that he finds himself leaning against the wall closest to the kitchen, watching as she moves about, earbuds pressed in her ears making her oblivious to his presence.

There’s a sense of relaxation to her, an almost smile as she sings. She doesn’t seem nervous nor skittish….just at peace.

That is she turns around and realizes he's standing there, watching her.

She snatches her earbuds out and immediately jumps on the train of unnecessary apologies. “I’m sorry! I didn’t—-you said you’d be back late.”

He chuckles, calmly pointing out, “it’s almost 2am.”

Her face is flushed red with unnecessary embarrassment. “I thought—I guess I figured that meant you’d come back in the morning.”

“I sleep in my own bed, if I can help it.” It’s a comfort thing, a nod to his preference for solitude. He’s never even stayed the night with Samantha, mostly because he knows her ass would see that as a damn marriage proposal.

Well, maybe not anymore.

“Why are you still up?”

“I—I couldn’t sleep.” It’s a simple answer he’s certain also includes a very real, dark backstory as to why she can’t sleep. He’s been there.

He gets it.

“I’ll be done soon—"

“You can stay up as long as you want. I don’t care.” And it’s true. The house is big enough for her to be making as much noise as she needs, and he probably wouldn’t hear anything from where his room is. He also recognizes the misery that comes with wanting but not being able to sleep, so if being in the kitchen is her distraction, then he’s good with that.

Of course, she continues with the apologies. “I’m sorry about the music—I just—the house was too quiet. I—I don’t like the quiet.”

“Solana.” He has to interrupt her. Roman’s not in the mood for her apology tour. Granted, he does hone in on the part of not liking the quietness of the house. Of course she would be the opposite of him. “I don’t care. Do what you want. Shit doesn’t impact me.”

Roman can see she’s unsure of how to take his words, most likely wondering if there’s some catch, if it’s followed up with a stipulation. But, there is none. As long as it doesn’t impact him, she can do what she wants.

“You have a nice voice,” he compliments, because again, it’s the truth. He’d never taken her as the singing type, but gradually, Roman is starting to see there may be more to Solana than meets the eye. 

Her unsure expression remains unchanged with the exception of her blush deepening as she mumbles a quiet, “thank you.”

Compliments of any sort seem to bother her, or maybe it’s less they bother her and more she’s unsure of how to respond because she’s not used to them.

He’d lean more on the side of that being the case.

Nevertheless, Roman decides to leave her be. “I’m going to bed.”

“Okay,” she says almost sheepishly, adding a quiet, “goodnight.”

Roman takes her in, the quietness and passiveness no longer as irritating as he once thought and believed it to be. It might still irk him, but the level of irritation isn’t as high as it used to be.

Whatever that means.

“Goodnight, Solana….”

————

From day one of moving into Roman's mansion, Solana has noticed the watch dogs that occasionally patrol the premises along with the armed guards. And while she’s always been tempted to ask to pet one, she’s also always decided against it. These dogs, like their handlers, are trained killers, not emotional support animals.

They’re not there for her to treat like objects.

But it’s when she walks outside, ready to head off to work, that she notices one guard with a dog Solana hasn’t seen before, a puppy, that she finds it in her to approach. With a couple minutes to spare before she has to leave for work, interacting with a dog seems like a nice way to start off the day.

Hand on her purse strap, she shoves back her anxiety about approaching this strange man, asking in a soft voice, “i–is he new?”

The guard sizes her up and down, answering with a gruff, “yeah.” 

Solana looks down at the dog who’s also staring up at her with just as much curiosity. Smiling gently, she carefully crouches down and waits for him to move closer. There's a generous leeway of his leash that would allow him to do so. 

Sure enough, the dog walks over to her, ears down. Giggling, she cautiously moves to pet him. “You’re so sweet….” And he is. Solana wonders if he’ll retain that sweetness once he undergoes his training. Unlikely. “Good boy…”

“He’s not a fucking pet.” The guard harshly scolds, giving a tug on the leash that makes the dog start to growl. Solana frowns, recognizing he’s annoyed with her interruption.

“I’m sor—”

But before she can finish her sentence, there’s a flash before her that seems almost too quick for her vision to process. But, when she does, she realizes Roman is now present, directly in front of the guard, hand wrapped around his throat. 

“Speak to her like that again, and I’ll cut your fucking tongue out your mouth.” His voice is as menacing and terrifying as the fire in his eyes. Roman shoves the man forward and demands. “Apologize. Now.”

The man is coughing, struggling to regulate his breathing but still manages to cough up a muttered, “I’m sorry.”

Solana feels and probably looks stumped at hearing such a thing. She can’t recall the last time someone has ever uttered those words to her. Understandably, she doesn’t know how to respond or react. 

“Leave,” Roman demands. And Solana isn’t sure she’s seen a man haul off as quickly as he does, guiding the dog along with him. 

Roman takes in her appearance as she stands up, nervously brushing any invisible lint off her pants. “You good?”

She nods, still not quite knowing how to take this. How to take Roman seemingly defending her. Or maybe he’s just defending what belongs to him. It has to be the latter of the two, because why would he care about defending her?

Red-faced, she tries to explain her actions. “It—it was my fault. I just—I saw the dog, and I just—I wanted to pet it.”

“Why are you apologizing for someone being rude to you? Does that shit make sense to you?” When he says it like that, no, it doesn’t. But it’s clearly meant to be rhetorical, as he then asks, “you like dogs?”

Nodding, she clarifies. “Small dogs, mostly. Big ones, umm, they kinda scare me.” As do most things. This, she’s sure, he’s noticed by now. “Uhh—what time do you want dinner ready?”

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll be back late tonight.”

“Oh.” Solana is unsure why there’s a strange sense of disappointment in her belly at this. Late….

In her experience with her dad and brother, that usually means they won’t be back until the next day, most likely in the morning. 

This should make her feel a bit relieved, not having to be on edge, feeling worried about upsetting him. 

Even if the only thing regarding her that she’s seen upset him is when he perceives she’s being disrespected.

She’s not quite sure what to make of that either.

“Ayo, Lil’ Soso.” A new voice enters the conversation, one she’s gradually growing comfortable and used to. Jey walks out with a rubbermaid container in his hand, chewing obnoxiously as he approaches Solana and Roman. “What are these things? They’re pretty good.”

There’s a couple of things to process in that one interaction, starting with the nickname Jey has used to refer to her in the times she’s run into him in the house. The twins, along with Paul, seem to be at the mansion often. The interactions though, have allowed her to feel less tense around him. Around Jimmy too.

She hasn’t had enough interaction with Paul to feel that way about him, and she’s certain that won’t change. He seems only concerned with Roman and no one else, which is valid and fair considering his role as Roman’s chief advisor.

Going back to his question, she answers, “conchas.”

“Con what?”

His expression and delivery make her smile. “Conchas. It’s a Mexican pan dulce. Sweet bread.”

“I don’t know half of what you said, but this shit good as hell. You got any more?”

“Don’t you have fucking food at your house?” Solana would never show or admit to it, but it’s sometimes funny to her how Roman seems almost always annoyed with his eccentric cousins. There’s no doubt in her mind though that he wouldn’t hesitate to kill for them, that he’s probably done so. And vice versa.

But they also seem to get on his nerves just as much. 

“Man, Nicki on that shit again, talking about she ain’t cooking until I start treating her right. Me and the kids been eating out.”

Kids? That surprises her. She didn’t know Jey was a father. 

“Solana! When you train with Naomi, can you exchange some recipes with her or something?” Jimmy also joins in the conversation, walking over while rubbing his stomach. “Cause I don’t know what that meal was in the blue container, but shit slapped.”

It takes a minute for her to remember which one that was. She’s always been a bit meticulous about separating her meals accordingly. “Carnitas Huevos Rancheros.”

Jimmy hesitates. “Yeah sure, that.”

“Am I running a fucking food pantry?” It’s hard to tell if Roman is genuinely annoyed. Something tells her it’s that type of irritation he naturally gets with the twins but won’t actually do anything about. “It’s not her job to feed you idiots.”

“I don’t mind,” she offers, adding. “I–I like to cook.” And it’s the truth. It reminds Solana of her mom, of all the times she’d spend in the kitchen learning from and spending time with the one and only person on this planet who ever loved her. 

“See, Uce, she likes to cook,” Jey points out, wiping the crumbs off his fingers on his pants and tucking the now empty container under his arm. “I’ll just take this off your hands.”

Solana’s watch vibrating, reminding her that her shift starts in half an hour, is the perfect reminder that while this conversation is comical, it’s also interfering with her schedule. She’s also certain Solo is waiting patiently, or impatiently, by the SUV for her to jump in so they can get a move on. “I—I’ve gotta get to work, but I can have the food ready by tomorrow. I’ll just come home and cook after training.”

“If you feel like it,” Roman adds, and she knows better than to push back and tell him cooking is one of the few escapes she has. It’s become even more of an escape without the anxiety and pressure of her dad and brother demanding the food always be ready in sometimes unrealistic time frames and lashing out when that doesn’t happen.

To Roman’s credit, if he’s ever been annoyed with waiting a few extra minutes for meals, he’s done a perfect job not showing as such. 

She simply nods, acknowledging his stipulation, offering a quiet ‘bye’ as she jogs off to the SUV with Solo ready to escort her to work.

It’s when she’s gone that Jimmy walks up beside Roman. “Man, she can cook, she don’t got a smartass mouth, and she got a body? Shit, Uce, ain’t you glad I told you to go with her?” Roman doesn’t offer a reply, but he definitely gives Jimmy that look that lets his cousin know to get away from him. Roman’s always been big on personal space.

“Does she cook every night?” Jey comes up, asking with an almost level of excitement. “Shit, me and the kids finna start coming over here.”

“Shut up.” The hell they will. Roman is still adjusting to living with someone. The last thing he needs is his cousin and his spawns running around his place, making noise, breaking and touching shit. Not going to happen. “Is Paul already at the office?”

“Yeah. He’s got the updated figures for you to go over. And the RKO proposal was sent over as well for you to review.”

Nodding, Roman starts to create a mental agenda for tasks he needs to complete for the day. And it goes without saying that he’s forever impressed how his cousins are easily able to slide back and forth between professional bag and bumbling morons. 

It’s one of the reasons he keeps them around and as high up in command as they are.

“Good,” Roman acknowledges, sliding his sunglasses over his eyes. “Let’s go.”

————

“Hey!”

Naomi’s smile is just as bright and genuine as the first time Solana met her, and that’s something she doesn’t know how to take. A part of her figured Naomi was just being nice to her because Roman was around, because she was given an order, and no one defies the Tribal Chief’s orders.

And maybe she could even chalk this up to being an order as well, Roman tasking her with training Solana on how to fight, hence the continued kindness.

Regardless of the motivating factor, this woman is clearly a capable and trained fighter. A killer. 

Solana would do well to stay on her good side.

“It’s good to see you. We didn’t really get a chance to talk much, but obviously, I’m Naomi. Jimmy’s wife.” For some reason, Solana can see it. Can see these two together, even if she’s only been around both less than a handful of times. “I train a lot of the new recruits, mostly women, some men.”

“Men?”

Naomi chuckles. “That’s typically their reaction too. Right before I remind them who I am and what I can do.”

Solana isn’t sure she wants to know the answer to either of those. 

“Just out of curiosity, do you have any kind of combat training? Fighting knowledge in general?” It’s a valid question that only has one embarrassing answer. Solana guesses that Naomi picks up on this embarrassment, adding gently, “it’s okay if you don’t. It just gives me a baseline on where we should start.”

“No—I—I’ve never done anything like this before.” And she’s still not sure if she wants to, not sure what Roman thinks she will get from this. Him, along with everyone else around her, learned how to shoot a gun at the same time they learned how to walk. She doesn’t think she’s ever even held a gun. There’s no way humanly possible she could ever be even a fraction as good at this. 

And Roman has to know this.

So, why is he making me do it?

Again, either Naomi is insanely perceptive or Solana is much worse at hiding her emotions than she initially believed. 

She’d bet on the latter of the two.

“He doesn’t want you to be like us. He just—”

“He wants you to stop being so damn weak,” a new voice interjects. Solana recognizes the tall, intimidating woman from before when Roman had taken her to the Warehouse. She hadn’t had any direct interaction, but just the mere fact alone that she’d simply looked at Solana with disgust told her all she needed to know. “Wants you to grow a backbone.”

“Nia.” Naomi’s smile is dropped, traded for an intense stare. “Lay off her, okay? You heard what Roman said.”

“Oh yeah, we have to be nice to her.” Nia’s smile is mocking, her unimpressed gaze taking in Solana from head to toe. But Solana focuses on what Nia just said versus her judgmental countenance. Did Roman really tell them to be nice to her? Why? Why would he do that?

Nia walks over, crossing her arms over her body. “Well, here’s some kind advice, I can tell from one look at you that life hasn’t been very nice to you. But that doesn’t make you special.”

Naomi steps in. “Nia!”

“Bad shit happens to people all the time. At some point, you have to stop allowing yourself to be a victim.” If not for the fact that Solana knows Nia can’t stand her, she’d almost think Nia is offering what she believes to be genuine advice vs judging her. “You’re here. You survived it. Make that survival worth something.”

Naomi pushes Nia away from Solana, saying something to her that appears to be in defense of Solana, which she’d appreciate if not for the fact that she’s now in her head.

Nothing Nia said is inherently wrong. The world is undoubtedly both good and bad, perfect yet imperfect, wholly and incompletely balanced. These are all facts she’s well aware of, but what Nia doesn’t know or understand yet is that a person still being here doesn’t mean they survived. 

Solana is already broken.

There is no survival.

There’s just existence.

“Don’t listen to Nia,” Naomi advises. Looking around, Solana sees that at some point in her dissociation, Nia departed. Naomi continues with that same warm smile. “She can be a bitch sometimes, but she does mean well…..occasionally.” Hands on her hip, Naomi brings the attention back to the whole reason Solana is even at the Warehouse. “How about we just start with flexibility and mobility? Most of us are smaller than the men, and you definitely are, girl.”

Small……

That’s a word Solana has never thought to use to describe herself. 

“Being smaller means we can move around faster, can navigate around an attacker in a bit of a quicker way. But, you also have to be able to move in a way that’s lithe. Don’t worry. I gotchu, girl.”

They are reassuring words, words that Solana is grateful for, especially as they begin and she feels completely out of her element. Because she is. Solana isn’t the least bit lithe, and she’s certain her hand eye coordination is straight up shit.

But regardless of all that, Naomi remains kind, patient, and even makes conversation with her.

It doesn’t feel like she’s being made to do this, but more like something she gets to do. And Solana is grateful for that interaction, for the space to not feel like she’s burdening someone. That feels nice. So, so nice.

But equilibrium is a hard thing to achieve and even harder to maintain, so while one safe space is being created, another unsafe space is gradually forming in the midst of her oblivion.

Austin Theory and Grayson Waller, two upcoming, arrogant, fighters and wannabe heads have used the Warehouse for their training space for the past few months after finally proving and gaining access to the elite training grounds. 

And while the initiation and acceptance process was brutal and would ward most off from fucking up their membership status, Austin and Grayson have always been hardheaded, too blinded by their own hubris to recognize when they’re about to shoot themselves in the foot.

And shooting themselves is the least of their worries when Grayson is casually surveying the gym to see who’s present, his eyes landing on a woman in particular who catches his interest almost instantaneously. 

“Well, who do we have here?” Austin is confused initially, Grayson motioning across the way to where Solana completes her cooldown with Naomi. 

Immediately, Austin scoffs. “Since when does this place offer a weight watchers class?”

Chuckling, Grayson still pushes back. “Hers is in the right places though, mate,” Grayson again advises Austin to watch Solana as she happens to be leaning back, palms flat on the ground making her top hug against her chest.

Austin makes a face. “Decent.”

“Who is she?” Grayson asks again as Austin notices a semi-familiar face walking nearby.

“Melo.”

Carmelo shifts his Beats headphones so they’re no longer covering his ears. “Whassup?”

Austin subtly gestures to Solana, asking, “who is that?”

Carmelo follows the line of vision and almost immediately snatches his eyes back to the duo. “Yo. You fuckin’ crazy?” 

“What?”

Carmelo repeats himself, a sense of urgency in his voice. “Do you know who that is?”

“Pretty sure that’s what we just fucking asked you, dumbass,” Austin slaps him upside the head. “Now who is she?”

“Solana Miller. Well, Solana Reigns now, I guess.” Carmelo lowers his voice, as if speaking too loudly will attract too much attention. And he’s not entirely wrong. “Roman’s wife.”

Grayson makes a face, looking between Carmelo and Austin for elaboration. “Reigns got married? Bullshit. That bloke is the last man to ever walk down the aisle.”

“You two would do well getting your head from up your asses every once in a while. It’s a recent thing, but still a thing. So unless you want your insides literally ripped from out of you, it’d be best to leave her the fuck alone.”

Austin, the most smug of the two, is the first to protest. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those. Everyone makes Roman out to be this big bad who can’t be touched. He defends, what, once every six months?” Austin scoffs. The fear that the “Head of the Table” seems to have over everyone has never made sense to him. Sure, he’s heard things, even seen some things, but that’s always been because Roman called the shot. He’s not the one actually taking or making them. “Everyone knows he has his heron boys do his dirty work for him.”

“Plus, isn’t the guy pushing 40? What the fuck is he going to do?” Grayson laughs.

“Break his fucking hip trying to chase us.”

Carmelo shakes his head as the two dipshits laugh at their unfunny humor. “I’m telling ya’ll. Messing with her is a death wish. Plus, I heard she’s not even like that. That’s she’s like….shy and shit.”

If intended to ward the two off, it does the complete opposite. Theory smirks. “Those are always the freakiest.”

Carmelo backs away, lifting his hand in a surrender motion. “Can’t say I ain’t warn you. Dig your own graves.” With zero interest in having any part of what these two are clearly planning, Carmelo puts his headphones back over his ears and jogs off to start his training. 

And it’s a wise decision as Austin and Grayson, forever the patient predators stalking their prey wait for Naomi to walk off, time it well so that there’s an appropriate enough time for Solana to walk off to the showers, get clean, and walk out at the same time they happen to be lurking in the halls that lead to the locker rooms. 

That’s exactly how it plays out too, Solana looking down in her bag to grab her phone and text Solo that she’s done and ready to leave when a voice nearly knocks the wind out of her.

“Hi there.”

Solana gasps as loud as the sound of her back colliding with the brick wall behind her from how startled she is.

Instantly, she’s met with a set of cold blue eyes and wicked smile. “Solana, right?”

Breathing feels like it’s an optional thing, her hands still gripping the brick wall behind her. She can only nod her answer.

“Austin.” He then nods to the other man that Solana realizes is leaning back against the wall opposite her. The anxiety intensifies. “This is my buddy, Grayson. You must be new around here?”

Solana doesn’t want to speak, doesn't want to be near these two who have her practically cornered. But, she also doesn’t want to piss them off either. “Y—yeah.”

Austin’s eyes twinkle with nothing that seems good. “You really are shy, huh?”

“They make the best.” Grayson comments from his propped up position. Solana doesn’t allow herself to think too much about what he’s implying. She just wants to get the hell away from them. One look, and she knows they’re up to no good.

It makes her sick to her stomach.

The idea of walking past these two brings a visceral, physical response that has her mouth watering. She feels like she’s going to throw up, but she also knows she needs to get the hell away from them. “I—I have to go.” From where the next thing to come out her mouth stems from, she doesn’t know, but it’s blurted with all the nerves in her body. “R-Roman is waiting for me.”

He’s not. She actually has no idea where he is, but there’s a part of her that wonders if reminding them of who she is, who her husband is will make them back off.

“Of course,” the one with an accent speaks, motioning with his arm for her to leave. “Don’t want to keep the Chief waiting.”

The mockery in his tone unease her even more. Does he not realize just who Roman is? What he’s capable of. 

Regardless, the second Austin backs away a bit, she’s darting through the hall, trying to put as much distance between herself and the two men, but she’s not far enough to miss the ominous departing statement from Austin.

“See you around, Solana.”

Something tells her this won’t be the last time she runs into them, and it leaves a deep, disturbing feeling in the pit of her stomach.

This isn’t good. 

It’s not good at all. 

————

Dear Mom,

I’m still alive. 

That’s a good thing, I guess. Life with Roman has been….a strange experience. The most important thing is that he hasn’t hit me yet, but I’ve been trying really hard not to upset him or get on his bad side. I do my best to make sure all of his meals are ready and on time, which I guess helps. 

But to be honest……he kinda confuses me. 

He hasn’t been unkind, and I don’t think I’ve ever experienced him really yelling at me. Not like I’ve seen him yell and scream at others. So, that’s also good. It’s a bit of walking on eggshells, just waiting for him to snap and hit me, but not as much as I was thinking.

I don’t know….it hasn’t been as bad here as I thought it would be. For the most part, he just leaves me alone. We don’t even eat dinner together, which is fine, cause I can’t see why he’d want to spend time with me anyway. 

But, he confuses me because it feels like sometimes he’s defending me or something, which doesn’t make sense because why would he do that? That would mean he has to care to some extent, right? I keep trying to remind myself that it’s probably not me he’s defending but his pride and standing, because I think being mean or disrespecting me is like disrespecting him? I’m not sure, but it’s definitely a new experience.

I haven't spoken to or heard from Wes and dad. Roman made me get a new phone with a new number that I’m not sure either of them have. I don’t know if I want to think too much about how bad it’s going to be when I finally do see them again…..

Wes made it clear I was supposed to be keeping in contact with them, but that hasn’t happened. Truth be told, I try not to think about that. Think about the fact that I’m somehow supposed be figuring out a way to…..to kill Roman. I could never do that. I could never kill anyone. You know that, mama. 

Even more….I feel like Roman is growing on me, like maybe he’s not as bad as I thought, like maybe there’s more to him than meets the eye.

I think….I think that I could learn to like living here.

—------

“WarGames?”

To Solana, it’s a simple question, because it’s definitely not an everyday term. But that’s clearly not the case given the startled expressions on both Bayley and Naomi’s face.

It’s becoming something she is slowly starting to enjoy. Not necessarily the training part, but the socialization. It’s something Solana has been deeply deprived of over the years, so to have someone to talk to, someone who wants to talk to her means a lot. 

Even if it’s technically a job she was assigned by Roman, Naomi has never made her feel like their interactions are forced. 

Moreover, it was just in last week’s training session, Solana was thoroughly and pleasantly surprised to find out Bayley is also a member of the Warehouse and friends with Naomi, that reunion almost giving Solana a sense of giddiness. 

She’s wanted to reach out since the wedding but never followed through based upon her fear that she’d be bothering Bayley. 

Clearly, that’s not the case. 

Solana is certain she’ll never forget Bayley’s kindness on a day where she really needed to believe in something, believe that there is always at least one reason to keep breathing, to be alive.

But, it’s when Solana asks about this topic Naomi and Bayley were discussing that attracts confounded expressions. 

“You’re kidding right?” Bayley is the first to speak, glancing between herself and Naomi. “He didn’t tell you?”

Still confused, Solana presses, “tell me what?”

“I’m not surprised Roman didn’t, but someone definitely should have.” Naomi shakes her head, shifting into an explanation.. “War Games. It’s an annual match. Super big deal. It’s a show of strength and dominance for the Bloodline. Kinda hard to explain. You’ll just have to see for yourself.”

It sounds….intense. “I—I don’t think I’m invited.”

“Your hubby has clearly been a bachelor for way too long for him to realize that he has to tell you these things.” Bayley rolls her eyes but protests Solana’s belief that she would somehow not be invited to one of the Bloodline’s most important yearly events. “You’re definitely invited. As Roman’s wife, you have to be there. It would be seen as a sign of great disrespect to him if you didn’t.””

Disrespecting Roman…..never a good idea.

“When is it?”

Naomi seems to hesitate before answering. “Tomorrow night” And before Solana can panic at such short notice, Naomis is reassuring her that it will all work out. “Don’t worry. Bay and I will help you get ready.”

“Hell yeah.” Bayley already goes into strategizing mode. “I’ll handle your hair and makeup, and Naomi can find you a kickass dress.”

“Red, of course. That’s the only non-negotiable. Bloodline thing, ya know.” Solana figured as such. She also briefly wonders if that’s why Roman has been coming back home late the past few weeks, because he’s been training? “But, I will say we usually dress….well, like we’re going clubbing for these kinds of events, so it’s gonna be short, tight, and a tad bit revealing.”

That is something that gives Solana pause. None of those things scream appealing to her at all. She doesn’t have the body to dress like that. Not with the rolls, stretch marks, and scars that mar hers. 

“I—I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” she finds it in herself to voice her opinion. A rarity. “I don’t—I don’t think I’d look good in something like that.”

Both Bayley and Naomi cast her confused expressions, Naomi being the first to speak. 

“Why?” Naomi presses, gesturing up and down. “Girl, you have a nice ass shape. You would fill out a bodycon dress nicely.”

Solana has a hard time digesting what Naomi is saying. She would look great in a dress like that. Naomi is both fit and curvy, the perfect amount of curves in the right places without unnecessary fat. Same for Bayley.

For Solana, the less skin she’s showing the better, though she wonders if the kind of attire they’re describing is some type of dress code, meaning there is no room to protest. 

The last thing she wants is for it to get back to Roman that she’s being “difficult.”

Defeated, she murmurs an ‘okay’ as the two of them engage in more conversation about this WarGames as well as fashion options. To be fair, they try to include her in, but Solana is too into her head about what this alleged night is as well as what it could include.

—---

Naomi wasn’t lying when she said that Solana would have to see WarGames for herself to understand it. That’s the absolute truth. 

It’s a spectacle, to say the least. 

For one, it’s a ton of people packed around the ring, the massive room where fights take place. The noise is boisterous, almost deafening, people drunk, swearing, placing bets, most of which are on the Bloodline.

And thankfully, Solana and Co. are seated in the upper area, a VIP box of sorts, away from the unruly crowd. She’s thankful for this for a lot of reasons, one of the biggest being the fact that she feels extremely uncomfortable in her dress. And just in general, but mostly with how much scarred skin is showing.

The dress is exactly as Naomi said it would be: short, red, and a bit revealing. Thankfully Naomi picked out a dress with a halter neckline that prevents any cleavage from showing, but there’s a split high up on the thigh that she finds herself trying to constantly adjust.

“You look great, Solana.” Bayley wears that same friendly, encouraging smile from Solana’s wedding day. “And I get that you’re self-conscious about your body, but I can guarantee these men would line up by the dozen for a chance to go home with you if not for your psycho-killer husband.”

Bayley playfully nudges her shoulder, and while Solana can emit a chuckle, she can’t bring herself to laugh. That line of men would be just as disappointed as she’s sure her psycho-killer husband was on their wedding night.

But, this isn’t the time and place for that.

“You look nice,” Solana compliments, partially a deflection technique but mostly the truth. Bayley, Naomi, and Nicki, who she met earlier that night and learned was Jey’s wife, all look exceptional in their numbers. Bayley is the only one not wearing red, for obvious reasons, but the jade green compliments her complexion well.

“We all look nice,” she says loud enough for the other two to hear.

Nicki opens her mouth to respond when the lights in the arena start to shift.  “Ugh. This bitch again.” Nicki’s scowl and expression of irritation draws Solana’s attention to the woman in the ring, who now has the spotlight on her, a woman she immediately recognizes as being there that night Roman woke her up from a nightmare.

The woman is tall, curvy in the right places, beautiful, bouncy curls cascading down her back. If she has a lot of makeup on, Solana can’t tell because it’s painfully obvious she’s been blessed with natural beauty. Everything about her is just so gorgeous.

At the time, she didn’t think anything of it, too caught in the haze of trauma. But now, curious and believing she can receive an answer, Solana asks, “who is she?”

“The most annoying person ever,” Nicki answers, taking a swig of her drink. In only knowing Nicki for less than an hour, Solana both does and doesn’t understand the compatibility between herself and Jey. They seem very much alike yet dissimilar. It makes sense why they fight as much as they do.

“That’s Samantha.” There’s no way to misinterpret the disgust in Nicki’s voice even as she pronounces Samantha’s name with undeniable distaste. “She does the announcements for events, but her daytime job is being a professional hooker.”

“Nicki!” Naomi shakes her head. “I think she’s a paralegal for a lawyer or something, but she’s mostly known as a pain in everyone’s ass. Always has been. Ever since we were in high school. She thinks because she’s light skinned with ‘good hair’ that she’s better than everybody.”

“Don’t forget about Roman,” Nicki chimes with her nose upturned. “She really thinks she’s hot shit though because she’s number one on his ‘I want my dick sucked’ list.”

This causes Solana to pause for a second. “What?”

She’s not stupid. Why else would this Samantha have been over at the house that late at night? And with Roman? Solana figured early on that if he isn’t getting any from her, then he has to be getting it from somewhere. Truthfully, even if their marriage did involve sex, she’s not sure he still wouldn’t find his way in between the legs of another woman.

But, there’s something about having it confirmed, hearing for herself that he gets around, that he clearly has a high sex drive that adds a whole new layer of insecurity.

She’s known from day one she could never be anyone he wanted or needed, and he expressed as such that day at the library, but this conversation makes it feel more…..real.

And she’s unsure why or just what makes this bring on a sense of sadness.

“Come on, I get you’re quiet and innocent and shit, but everyone knows that man is a hoe. If you’re black or black–ish with a vagina, fat ass, and big titties, he’ll fuck you. Cause none of them fools fuck with white girls.” She glances at Bayley, almost sympathetically. “No offense.”

“I’m Mexican.”

This serves as a brief, nice distraction for Solana. She suspected that Bayley wasn’t entirely white, but hearing that she’s Hispanic, Mexican, makes Solana feel a small slice of excitement. She makes a mental note to ask her if she speaks Spanish. 

Solana hasn’t been able to communicate in the language her mother made sure to teach her in secret given Xavier’s protest since her murder. So, the idea of being able to communicate with another person in that language makes her feel a bit excited. Maybe more than a bit.

Nicki is dismissive, though there’s a hint of humor there. Like she knows and is just messing with the other woman. “Sure you are, Bay.”

Bayley rolls her eyes and assures Solana. “Don’t listen to her.”

“Ya’ll, don’t lie to this girl.” Nicki seems dead set on stressing this point, and Solana can’t figure out if it comes from a good place, a drunk place, or somewhere in between the two of them. “If it wasn’t common knowledge he don’t fuck none of these bitches raw and makes most get on birth control, I’d tell you to not let that fool touch you with a ten foot pole.”

Bayley is watching Solana, sees the discomfort growing at this conversation and moves to change the conversation. “Why don’t we talk about you and Jey and why I literally saw him flirting with Sasha the other day?”

At that, Nicki drops her drink, cussing loudly, “man, fuck him! I don’t give a fuck about him or that bony heifer! I’ll beat the shit out both of them.”

“Nicki. Shut the fuck up. You may beat her ass, but you gon be right back to drunk spilling about how good Jey’s dick is when it’s all said and done.” Naomi dismisses, and something tells Solana she’s not wrong. Nicki and Jey seem to have a bit of a…..tumultuous relationship.

“I mean it this time!”

“Uh huh, sure sis.”

“And if you don’t give a fuck about him, why are you here?” Naomi challenges. 

All eyes on her, even Solana’s slightly curious gaze, Nicki falls back in her chair and mumbles, “cause that’s my man.”

Naomi and Bayley are a chorus of laughter and whooping and hollering, roasting Nicki for her contradictory statements.

Flashing blue lights illuminate the arena as everyone immediately moves to their feet followed by opening music that almost instantly brings chills up Solana’s arms. The lights then transition to a combination of red and blue, the sound of cheering intensifying as she redirects her focus back to where the first group entered. 

Solana’s eyes instantly, maybe even naturally, land on Roman. He stands first among the men, shirtless, ula fala around his neck, championship belt around his waist, a look of fierce determination and stoicism painted across his handsome face. 

And that body…..rippling muscles glistening under the heat of the lights.

It’s a strange and miserable experience. Feeling all of the sensations and attractions a human typically has to another human being but having an almost inability to act on them. It’s not that Solana isn’t attracted to Roman. She finds him to be sinfully attractive. The issue is that whenever she thinks about what physical acts take place when two people find each other attractive is when her head is swarmed with vivid memories and flashbacks of being violated in the worst way possible.

And the attraction is stumped by fear and trauma. Fear of being touched. Fear of being with anyone in that way. 

It’s like Roman said. He can get that from anyone, so why would he bother with her?

When he has someone like Samantha, prettier, smaller, easier, at his disposal?

It brings a wave of sadness over her that she’s grateful isn’t noticed by the other ladies who are focused on the start of the match.

And to her credit, Solana tries to pay attention, grateful and thankful for Naomi and Bayley occasionally pointing out certain aspects of how it works, why the two groups are separated, individual members from each side periodically being sent into the line of fire.

“Roman always goes last,” Naomi explains at one point.

“Save the best for last type shit,” Bayley adds, finishing off her beer and asking for another. 

“More like once he gets his ass in there, it’s a wrap. Everyone left getting smashed.” Solana believes this wholeheartedly. She’s just not sure if she wants to see that, see that side of him up close. 

It exists, obviously, but it’s hard to compare the killer she knows he is to the man he’s been to in the short duration of their marriage.

Almost….almost kind. 

The fighting, brutal and bloody, all occurs in the ring, but Solana constantly finds her gaze falling back to Roman. He remains seated, patiently or maybe impatiently waiting for his turn, never once ripping his gaze from the match. She sees Paul outside the cage, occasionally speaking to Roman, advising as he always does. 

Solana can tell he’s completely immersed, focusing solely on the match before him. 

And it’s when there’s some type of in-ring argument between the twins and the other member-in-training of sorts, Sami, she thinks Naomi called him, that she turns to the ladies. “What are they doing?”

“Sealing a death wish,” Nicki answers with a shake of her head. “Roman gon’ have all they asses for this.”

Naomi sighs loudly, advising Solana after the bickering results in one of the men from the other group getting the upper hand, landing a particularly brutal looking kick to Jey. “There’s been some….contention between Sami and the twins, mostly Jey, but Nicki isn’t entirely wrong. They should know better than to let that shit interfere with a match. Roman will most likely make them stay after and……yeah.”

Solana doesn’t need a detailed explanation. She has a good idea of what Roman making them pay will look like. It’s also not something she wants to see.

The match, in and of itself, despite the excitement and pure interest of everyone around her, isn’t necessarily something she wants to see. Solana has seen, been exposed, and experienced enough fighting violence to last her a lifetime. 

This is entertainment to them, but for her, it’s been her lived experience.

So, she doesn’t feel any sort of adrenaline rush watching grown men beat the crap out of each other, blood, sweat, and bruised, battered bodies putting themselves through hell. It gives her some relief to see that the Bloodline, for the most part, remains with the upperhand. Even with their in-house argument earlier in the fight. 

But, it’s when the timer that ends with another man joining the brawl moves to a ten second countdown that her interest grows a bit more. It grows a bit because Roman is finally about to enter the ring.

She watches him, has mostly just watched him this entire time. He’s just as unbothered as he was the minute he walked in. Adjusting his gloves while Paul clearly tries to bestow some last minute wisdom before he makes his entrance.

It feels a bit redundant. She’s certain this man doesn’t need anyone helping him with anything.

And as soon as the timer winds down to zero, Roman gradually making his way to the ring, Solana knows she was right. Knows he doesn’t need help, because he’s been studying and planning for the past almost 45 minutes. Strategizing.

It shows the minute the men, all 10 of them go at it. It’s hard to keep track of all of the mayhem, fists flying, kicks landing in areas that are sure to require a couple days to recover. But, it’s Roman who still manages to catch and hold Solana’s attention. He moves with such precision and accuracy, blows every bit as barbarous and violent as his reputation warrants.

There’s a small part of her that experiences something she can’t quite label or understand when he takes a hit, especially when a member of the other team manages to catch Roman off guard, sending him into the table, the weight of him snapping it in half.

At that, she nervously starts to move her fingers up and down the side of her dress. But, Roman, while clearly impacted from the blow by the blood starting to stream down the back of his arm only seems further enraged. Like being attacked has somehow refueled him, recharged his already pre-existing rage.

“They are in trouble now….” Naomi murmurs, shaking her head, as if she knows what’s about to come. “Roman hates getting hit, and they made him bleed too?”

It’s the blood part, maybe, that bothers Solana. It’s silly given who he is and the fact that he’s clearly holding his own just fine, but Solana wonders why he doesn’t or can’t have that tended to. It has to hurt.

But, then again, it all hurts, so maybe the pain just numbs itself out.

And maybe Roman is clearly caught up and consumed in adrenaline, in the mad rush of the battle, because it seems from the table slam on out, no one is touching him. He’s all over the place, strong blows resulting in grown men crying out in pain. She’s certain those closer to the actual ring can hear the sound of bones crunching, an inevitable thing given the abnormal distortion of limbs she sees on the other team.

He yells and taunts his opponents, one by one, laying them out with the somewhat assistance of the rest of the men. Truth be told, Roman could have probably tagged out the other four men and handled the other team all on his own. 

He’s just that effective.

And when there’s only one man standing, barely, Roman moves to the other side of the ring, face turned up in rage, watching and waiting for the perfect moment for him to dart across, laughing into a spear so forceful that it knocks the man unconscious instantly, guaranteeing an instant, easy pin.

The crowd erupts in cheers, Roman’s music sounding as Samantha formally announces the Bloodline as the winners.

There’s a strange sense of relief that Solana has at that, at the fact that this is all over, that the fighting is done. That Roman is done, because her mind keeps going toward the fact that he probably needs some level of medical attention and when said attention is going to happen.  

But while she expects the Bloodline to start their exit, she’s instead met with security dragging the unconscious bodies of the losing team outside of the ring.

“What’s happening?” Solana asks Bayley, realizing that the women are starting to pack up to head out. “Isn’t—isn’t it over?”

“For us, yes.” Her eyes set on the twins, Solo, and Sami. “For them, it’s just beginning.” Solana reflects back on their in-ring argument and Naomi’s foreshadowing about this happening, about this punishment.

And one glance at Roman, his hulking shoulders lifting and lowering with his heavy panting. His eyes are flaming with a fury he clearly intends to take out on his team.

“Come on.” Naomi draws Solana’s attention. “I’ll ride home with you, cause Solo ain’t gon be free no time soon.”

None of them will.

Solana recognizes this and agrees, but it’s not without a sense of disappointment at not leaving with Roman.

And that confuses her. It confuses her a lot.

She didn’t arrive with him, so why would she leave with him?

More importantly, why does she care that she’s not leaving with him?

—----------

“I–I can do that for you.”

There are some things meant to be thought and some things meant to be said. This is one of those things that should have stayed in Solana’s head instead of rolling off her tongue the way it does. 

She was only supposed to ask him if he wanted her to make anything in particular for breakfast tomorrow, not offer to freaking suture stitches for him.

Well, that’s not entirely true, because as it’s almost damn midnight, she could and should at least be in bed trying to sleep. She’s been home for almost two hours, showered, changed into her oversized shirt and sweats. 

She shouldn’t even be standing before him, but there was some type of unease she had at trying to fall asleep without making sure he made it home, without seeing to it that he tended to any injuries he sustained tonight.

Solana almost feels like that’s what she should do, like she should make sure she’s available to assist him with anything he may need. Like it’s just another thing that could keep him from directing his anger from earlier towards her. 

And it’s slightly less stressful for her in knowing that he’s more likely to harshly dismiss her, maybe even chastise her for unintentionally implying he’s somehow incapable. However, instead of a rebuff, he simply looks at her, asking, “you know how?”

Solana doesn’t know why, but she takes this as a sign that he’s accepting her offer. Walking over to where he sits at the kitchen island, she sees he already has the supplies laid out. “I—I’ve had a lot of experience.”

Some of it from patching up her dad and brother but most of it from patching up herself over the years, from watching and learning from her mother tend to her wounds after sustaining beatings from Xavier. “My mom was also a nurse. She—she taught me a lot.” Like the proper way to suture. “Did—did you already disinfect?”

Solana is slightly nervous when he says no. That means she’s the one that’s going to have to inflict that brief but potent burning pain.

Lovely.

Nonetheless, she readies the cloth, holding it over the cut before warning, “this—this might sting.”

“I don’t care.” And she believes it. Seeing him in the ring tonight, his prowess, his brutality, she’s not sure if anything could hurt him.

Solana proceeds to clean and disinfect the area before grabbing the sutures to start stitching him back up.

Roman suddenly asks her. “Did you want to go into the medical field?” Roman recalls from the file he read on her that she never pursued any higher education beyond high school, something else he marked against her at the time. Education and knowledge have always been important to him.

But meeting her and slowly learning more about her backstory, he wonders if that was of her own choosing, hence his asking.

Solana, meanwhile, can’t figure out why he’s even talking to her in the first place. He seemed, justifiably, annoyed with and not wanting to be bothered with any and everyone post match. Now he’s asking her questions about things she hasn’t thought about in years. 

Still, she answers with the truth. “I—I wanted to be a nurse. Like my mom.” 

This doesn’t surprise Roman as he follows up with, “why didn’t you?”

A lot of reasons. Many of which she has very little desire to share, not that she could or would even want to ever voice as such to the man sitting in front of her. 

That’d be an instant death wish.

“My—my father. He, umm, didn’t want me to leave home.” It’s a version of the truth, the unabridged version being he didn’t want her to leave home because he wouldn’t be able to control her if she did so.

And Solana has a feeling that she doesn’t need to share all that, that Roman already knows this.

“Why didn’t you just leave?” Roman’s delivery, like most of the time, is insensitive. But, he genuinely wants to know. For what reason did she stay there all those years, in a house of horrors instead of just leaving and never looking back?

It’s a fair, simple question with a complex, layered answer that she greatly simplifies. 

“I tried. It—it never worked out.” And it’s when Roman hears the sudden sadness in her voice, sees the way her eyes temporarily shift to her inner forearms, horizontal faded scars that he’s just now able to see from how close she is to him that he gets it.

He realizes that she tried in more ways than one, none of them being successful.

And in a truly coincidental way, Solana notices he’s also cut on the back of his bicep. It’s also in her being so close to him that she realizes underneath the intricacies of the tribal tattoos on his forearm, there are scars. Burn scars, nothing severe, but visible enough for her to notice. 

It makes her wonder about where he got them, how he got them, not that she’d ever have enough bravery to ask.

She instead clears her throat and gestures to the cut. “Do–do you want me to do that one too?”

It takes a second for Roman to think about what she’s asking. “Is it deep enough?”

Without thinking about it, she brings her hand to finger to lightly feel the cut that was clearly poorly and in a rush patched up post fight. Nodding, she explains, “it’s deeper than about 1/4th an inch, so yeah, I—you should let me.” And in realizing she’s touching him, like she isn’t doing the same thing while suturing, she snatches her hand back, apologizing quietly.

He doesn’t think he’s ever had a woman apologize for touching him.

“Okay.” 

And that’s it, he doesn’t protest, doesn’t chastise her for making it seem like he doesn’t know or understand injuries. He just allows her to work on him, Solana doing her best to ignore the fact that he’s so close to her, his big, strong body, even while seated, overwhelming her. 

But while this would typically cause Solana to go into panic mode, being so close to a half dressed man, she doesn’t feel that with Roman. She doesn’t feel anything at all. No anxiety, no fear, just some nameless emotion that doesn’t evoke her typical nervous responses.

“Okay.” Finishing up, Solana moves to clean up the supplies, discarding what is no longer usable. “Just….don’t get it wet for next few hours, and apply the ointment as needed, but—I’m sure you know all this already.” She feels silly for speaking to him as if he hasn’t patched himself up or been stitched up countless time before. “I’m gonna—I’m gonna go to bed now.”

Not wanting to risk embarrassing herself further, she turns on the heel of her foot and starts walking off, only to stop when he calls for her. 

“Solana.”

She turns around, and Roman is briefly caught up in how she presses her lips together, trying to suppress a frown. She thinks she’s done something wrong.

One more sweep of her frame from bottom to top, remembering the stunning complement and contrast of the red dress against her complexion. He compliments, “you looked beautiful tonight.”

She looks absolutely taken back by what is an obvious statement. Taken back and confused. “M—me?” She’s pointing to herself, brows arching together. And for a second, there’s a small hint of a growing smile as she asks, as if he could have made a mistake. “Really?”

He didn’t.

Roman doesn’t make mistakes

Solana has a lot of things fucked up about her, but one thing not a damn person can deny is that she’s absolutely gorgeous with a body to match. That’s just a fact, why he felt the need to express said fact is a bit beyond him, but Roman doesn’t allow himself to think too much about it. It’s not a sentimental thing at all, just a plain fact being stated, if anything.

“Thank you,” she finally says as he notices the reddening of her cheeks. “Umm, good night.” Solana’s hand is on the banister, her finger squeezing tighter than the coils in her stomach. “Roman?”

It would be a hell of a lot easier if he would have just ignored her, but he doesn’t. His gaze snaps up to her from the phone now in his hand.

The same hand she witnessed just tonight pummel grown men, just as muscular and intimidating as he is to a bloody pulp. The same hand that could easily take her life, could have her clinging onto life with just one beating. And that’s all she can see at the thought of telling him about Grayson and Theory messing with her, that it’s now happened twice, they’ve caught her off guard and alone, sexually harassing her. 

Nia’s words from the other day return to the front of her mind.

“He wants you to stop being so weak.”

He’ll blame her. He’ll blame her the same way her father blamed her for what they did to her. He’ll blame her for being so weak. That’s what Solana knows will happen. Knows he’ll say she was leading them on, that she must have done something to garner their interest in her. And he’ll be angry.

He’ll be angry at her.

And nothing good ever comes out of Roman Reigns being angry.

She’s seen it for herself firsthand tonight.

Determine to find a way to deal with this on her own, she shakes her head, “nothing. S–sorry.” She’s turned back to the steps when he says her name this time. His tone clear and authoritative.

She jumps, immediately turning back around to face him. He’s now standing near the steps where she stands, halfway between rescue and ridicule.

Something flashes in his gaze at her obvious nervousness, but he quickly refocuses on the topic at hand. “You have something to say, so say it.”

A deep layer of regret and anxiety settles in at the realization that there is no lying to Roman. He’s adroitly skilled in reading between the lines and seeing through bullshit. Or maybe she’s just that bad at lying.

Hopefully not the latter because another lie is about to roll right out.

“I was just—I was gonna sleep in tomorrow, but I have to make your breakfast, so I’ll just—”

“You don’t have to do anything, Solana.” 

Roman knows she’s lying. Knows she just pulled that out of her ass instead of sharing whatever it is she initially wanted to say. It’s probably something stupid too, something he won’t give two shits about, but something she thinks he gives two shits about. And he’d push her if not for the fact he can tell she’s getting all nervous and shit on him again. The last thing he needs is her having another panic attack. 

“Sleep in,” he directs. This is a conversation, much to his chagrin, that will have to take part in sections. And it’s too late in the evening to hash out one of those sections. And to be fair, there is a part of him that recognizes she probably does feel like she needs to be up at the ass crack of dawn like him to have his first meal of the day ready to go. And his lunch. And his dinner.

Granted, Roman can’t and won’t complain about all of it, because the girl can cook her ass off.

But, it’s not necessary.

He’s more than capable of taking care of himself.

He’s done so since he was 10 years old.

“Thank you.” She does that thing again where she smiles like he’s just told her she’s won the lottery or been given the cure to world hunger. It’s the simplest things that seem to make her happy. Considering the bar has already been set so low, it makes a bit of sense.

It makes a lot of sense.

“Goodnight.”

Roman is certain she’s intentional in the way she turns on the heel of her foot to move up the stairs, putting as much distance between the two of them to avoid a follow up question. Her avoidance behavior is a bit impressive, irksome, but still impressive, nonetheless.

And it would be remiss of Roman to not sneak a peak of her retreating form moving up the steps, his eyes glued to the sway of her ass, again remembering that short, red dress that momentarily distracted him when he laid eyes on her at the match.

Roman would never deny his physical attraction to her. That’s just a fact. She’s shaped in a way that makes his dick hard at the thought of having that body underneath his, writhing, begging for him to not stop fucking her in all the ways he would if he could.

But, that’s a fantasy. It’s a fantasy because the reality is that he can’t even touch this girl without her freaking out on him, something that would annoy him greatly if he didn’t realize there’s a reason behind her jumpiness.

Something that’s beyond just her shitty father and brother. 

Roman doesn’t allow himself to travel down that path, to see what it might lead to because just the thought of what might be the reason she doesn’t like being touched has his fist forming at his side, nostrils flared, and anger brewing at an accelerated pace that doesn’t make sense.

It also doesn’t make sense when he grabs his phone, navigating to the desired thread, sending a text he doesn’t think much about.

Roman: Get me a list of dog breeders. Small dogs. Preferably local. We can travel if necessary.

Paul: Sir?

Roman: Just do it.

Paul: I’ll have it to you by tomorrow morning.

[hoofpeet]

Adult Plum + Some design notes :] She either works at a train station with her cousin Pumpkin or does professional wrestling

[realpokemon]

i saw somebody argue that training for wrestling matches by literally sparring with your own fighting type pokemon is unethical. that take has stayed in my head for days. unethical to who. your opponent? your pokemon?

TBH you need to professionally train and teach your pokémon if you want to wrestle with them so they know the difference between "initiating play wrestling" and "you're allowed to fight humans"

[racefortheironthrone]

What differs a Bronze Age Monarchy from a Feudal or Modern State Monarchy? For whatever reson I have always been given the impression that Bronze Age Monarchy is the ancient version of either the former or the later, but that does not sound right.

Yeah, that would be a major misconception.

Bronze Age monarchies:

were far more centralized than medieval monarchies, with large, year-round palace complexes that functioned not just as fortresses but also as judicial centers, religious centers, storehouses, state planning apparati, and so on. To operate all these various functions, they employed a large bureaucracy that had, if not a monopoly, something of an oligopoly, on literacy, numeracy, and higher learning.

were highly involved in planning the economy, from organizing irrigation and other labor-intensive farming practices to keeping detailed records on production and taxation to coordinating the complex network of international trade that regulated the flow of both key commodities like tin but also luxury goods.

had more of a monopoly on military force, especially when it came to elite units like chariots. Training an archer and a driver to work in unison with a team of horses specifically bred to the task and custom chariots was a long and expensive process that only a monarch could provide the necessary surplus food and other resources for.

were not Christian. I can't stress enough how important this was as a structural force - Bronze Age monarchs did not have to deal with a large, European-wide, literate bureaucracy, with immense cultural power, that owned more land than they did. This isn't to say that there was no interaction between the temples and the state - I've talked recently about the tendency of Bronze Age monarchs to either be god-kings or priest-kings - but that the terms of interaction between the two much more heavily favored the state.

By contrast, medieval monarchies - and I'm aware that the term is something of a moving target, because what it meant to be a king in CE 600 is very different from what it means in CE 1100 or CE 1600 - were:

decentralized. They had small, peripatetic courts, and initially almost no bureaucracy. Governing power was much more broadly distributed down to the regional and local level through feudal contracts, and it was a long and very fraught process for the monarchs to gradually wrestle that power back.

much less engaged in the economy. Aside from tariffs and monetary policy, which is important, you don't really see medieval monarchs telling peasants when to plow and which fields (outside of the monarch's own personal fiefs), because that was an interference with the decentralized manorial system. You see fewer and smaller building projects, in no small part because the monarch usually couldn't afford to do them.

had less of a monopoly on violence. While the feudal exchange was supposed to give kings military service in exchange for land, in practice feudal levies could be slow to form, quick to disperse, and very fractious about their terms of service. This meant in practice that the nobility could exercise more hard power than their nominal overlords, which is why noble revolts were a common feature. Similarly, it took a long time for the monarchs to establish the necessary fiscal architecture for assembling professional armies and then eventually turning those professional armies into standing armies and then eventually turning those armies against the nobility - and by that point, we're not really talking about the Medieval period any more.

were Christian. And while there could certainly be exceptions of Emperors who picked Popes (instead of the other way around) or kings who could weirdly judo-flip their piety into Galician-style control of their national church, over time the pendulum definitely swung in favor of the Church having more power than any one monarch. They were wealthy, their wealth tended to grow over time because they were a corporate institution that invested their profits back into the company, they had huge amounts of cultural power, they had huge amounts of political power, and so on.

[caskethrill]

chat should i continue this …

very old n long draft of carmen berzatto. nsfw under the cut :-)

you were unburdened by talent and high-strung— a baker by association and absolutely clueless in the kitchen.

“aren’t you supposed to be good at this?” richie would remark, evincing an expression that united both quizzical and concerned.

“i never said that.” you glared down at your massacre of fat, jagged chunks of carrot. gory evidence weighed tightly around your fingertips in the form of sticky, fabric bandages. you come from a family of professionally trained pastry chefs— you had been force-fed sweet spoonfuls of in doubt compotes and tested freshly-filled cream puffs your entire life. you didn’t know the first thing about julienne and chiffonade. what you did know it was too much to live up to.

“fuck off.” the bass of his voice is wired and terse— loud and directed at his cousin. but to you, carmy’s voice is tender.

“s’okay, chef. let me see.” an amused and benevolent grin splits his lips as he perches a set of scarred fingertips upon your elbow. your method of ‘attack’ on the ill-fated vegetable is adjusted and your slices are thin again. “just like that, chef.”

you needed this job. you were strapped for cash and employment rates were at an all-time-low but you were a hard-worker and a quick learner, or at least that’s what you had told carmen berzatto in an attempt to plead your case. you had stared hopefully up at him from the chair in his office, all wide-eyed and bushy-tailed. your pencil skirt was short and the kitchen was unbearable. he couldn’t say no.

“‘attagirl, chef.” “easier like that, huh, chef?” “you like that, chef?” “doing so good, chef.”

you needed this job— it was a mantra that needed repeating at least ten times a day. you needed this job… bad. he was your boss, and unfortunately, the star-crossed crushing of it all made it all the more enchanting. it took bloody palms and searing hot pans on sensitive, bare flesh in one day for him to provoke the insufferable desire. “such a clumsy girl,” he’d jeer, and you’d positively melt.

you’d laugh suspiciously hard at his jokes and he would ignore the alien crater in his gut each time you stood close enough for him to get a whiff of your fragrance— herbs and pepper and vanilla extract, but you, nonetheless. he’d comp you a meal on particularly demanding days and wave off the disembodied crowd of complaints about nepotism and threats of hr visits coming from the rest of the staff. you were his favourite, and it was no secret.

“you’re in today?”, “you’re still here?” or even "get a life, for fuckssake," were too phrases you heard too often. the latter was richie's favourite. you handed out your days off and picked up overtime in the name of ‘i miss him and wonder what he is doing and can't breathe right every time we are apart’. a great cause, in your opinion.

“you know i’m not paying you for this, chef.” carmy satirized one particular night, a lazy smirk hanging onto the corners of his lips. this particular night, graced by whatever gods or receiving all of your good karma in one single sum, you were the only two left at the restaurant, paint buckets resting by your feet. “i’m past due for a bit of charity.”

trepidatious silence led to a bottle of wine which led to too many questions. you were a chatty drunk and he was an especially assertive one. painting walls meant scooping globs of white onto his slacks and then him, dragging it across your shirt. the wine, and even maybe even the fumes, led to wrestling each other into a kiss, tossing your wet and gritty clothing to the floor. it all led to this unruly credence that is the control that carmen had on you. he spent many nights observing how malleable and pliant you were to his needs, to him.

it was dangerous for his ego.

it didn’t take barking an essay of a lecture or a spout of unsavoury words or even a snap of his fingers. it took a look— a simple glare that seethed ‘drop the attitude’. that was the thing about carmy; he didn’t have to rough you around to get his point across, he just liked to. that didn’t mean he wasn’t just as captivating when wallowing in fury— his big, taut arms would cross over his chest. he liked to rub his forehead with his large hands and comb threw his hair with his exceptionally thick fingers and you couldn’t help but soak threw your panties. in fact, it wasn’t a good day until carmy got worked up one way or another. he didn’t think the same of you.

you were too ardent for this kind of work— carmy knew it, richie knew it, the entire kitchen knew it.

“hi boss,” you sniffle at the end of a rather rowdy night. you find support in the doorframe of his office, shoulder smushed against the hardwood as you shot your senior a sad smile. your eyes were red and puffy. it was a wealth of chaos you had to get used to, and everyone had faith that you would.

“let me make it better.” carmy would call it a suggestion, but he was authoritative. your gaze was stupefied and watery with sweet, desperate tears. your head bobbed up and down sprightly.

“c’mon, big girl. use your words. we talked about this.”

“please, carm. make it better.”

he had you hoisted up onto his desk in no time, grip brawny on the undersides of your thighs, his weight heavy between your legs.

the ripple of his bicep each time he bullied his thick fingers into your slick walls went unmistaken by the tightness of his stark white t-shirt. you let out a long whine. carmen tuts, “you’re such a crybaby.”

his tongue was like molten, tracing the pulse of your neck, leaving behind a trail of his wet saliva. “s’okay, baby. you did such a good job today. i’m so proud of you.” the scent of mint chewing gum, cooking oil and cigarette smoke makes your brain short circuit, sputtering out helpless moans and whines. the sound was accompanied by of the tune of the desk being shoved into the weak drywall, cunt taking the brunt of abuse from his fist.

“repeat after me, m’kay?” his skilled and scarred fingers were stretching you wide. he didn’t have to fight to keep you still or use his weight to manoeuvre your legs open like he usually did— you welcomed the crippling pleasure you’d usually fight off and it made carmen practically shiver in realization. you finally learned how to take it like a good whore, he thought.

your boss dragged his nimble fingers in and out— gently tracing and prodding at the leaking hole. “i’m a good girl.”