A/N: Now do you see why I put that time disclaimer in there? I'm telling you guys, when I just attempt to write it never happens, but when I finally buckle down and just do it, it comes out of me. So... here's the first one. Hope you guys are excited for this! And don't forget to give me more ideas!

"Saturday night was for wives, but Friday night at the Copa was always for the girlfriends." –Goodfellas

Randy Orton knew the second he walked into the room that all eyes were on him. Of course, he had to give credit to himself, because come on, who wouldn't turn their head at the sight of him?

But not tonight.

Tonight? Tonight they were looking at her.

Because everyone turned their heads when she walked into the room.

The air changed wherever she was—it got thicker. Heavier. Guys left their girlfriends just to watch her walk past. Guys left their girlfriends just to hear her say no when they asked her if they could buy her a drink.

She always said no.

Because tonight? Tonight she was with him.

And ain't nobody walking away from him.

"Where do you want to sit?"

She had this casual seduction about her—just the way she held his arm, the way her mouth moved to form words. "At the bar," she purred.

"Perfect choice, dollface."

The bartender was waiting for them, waiting to light her cigarette if she smoked, waiting to mix up whatever drink she chose.

While everyone else's eyes were on her, her eyes were on him.

He half-smiled. "Want a drink?"

She nodded and turned to her purse.

Randy looked over at the bartender. "Two martinis, up. No olives."

"I want olives," she said quickly.

"Olives for the lady. I find any in mine, I'll break your legs. Capiche?"

The bartender wasn't even listening to him, shaking the mixture already, watching Maryse carefully, hoping she'd need something from him.

Randy turned back to her. "How you feeling tonight, sweetheart?"

She put a cigarette in her mouth, the French shit that she only smoked, and turned her head to the already waiting lighter from the bartender.

Randy watched the way her neck tightened as she blew out smoke, the way her lips formed a heart when she blew it right into the bartender's face. She winked and turned back to Randy in one easy motion.

She grinned. "I feel sexy, mon cherie."

"What are you doing, speaking French here? You're Italian tonight, sweetheart."

"French is sexier. I sing when I speak."

Randy smirked, sliding his hand along the back of her chair, mouth burying into her blonde hair. "Voglio leccare il suo corpo."

A throaty laugh slid out of her throat. She was never one to giggle. "What is that, you say?"

"If you were Italian, you'd know."

She blew smoke into his face. "If you were French, you'd already be doing it."

Randy gave a guttural groan deep in his chest and leaned toward her, but the bartender slid two drinks in front of them, and she moved away, grabbing hers.

He paused near her cheek. "Already denying my advances?"

She swallowed half her glass before she turned to him, noses bumping, lips glistening. "My throat was dry."

"I coulda helped you with that, sweetheart."

She turned away with an eye roll, exposing her long, elegant neck.

Randy bent down and ran his mouth along the tendons.

"Ah, ah, ah!" She moved away, wagging her cigarette hand. "Not in public."

"Relax, sweetheart, we're in good company." He motioned to the crowded room. "You see any one of these guys out tomorrow night, guaran-fuckin'-tee you they'll be with another woman."

"You included, correct?"

"Me included, dollface."

She pursed her lips, reaching for her drink.

He caught her hand. "But it's not tomorrow night."

She smiled, her pretty pink mouth stretching over her perfectly straight teeth. "No, you are right. How do we celebrate?"

"By making sure Friday lasts as long as it can."

"And how long"—her eyes lowered, then up again, flashing at him through her lashes—"can Friday nights last?"

Randy knocked back his martini, watching her as she slid the olives off the toothpick with her front teeth. "Longer than Saturday nights."

She nodded and glanced around as she chewed. "And Friday nights. When do zey start?"

Randy stood and grabbed the back of her hair. "Right fuckin' now."


The murmur of small talk, the dark lighting, the scrape of silverware and glasses clinking.

It was Saturday night.

Randy leaned back in his chair, patting his stomach through his pressed, white button down. "If it's one thing they know how to do, it's make a good steak."

Beth smiled and nodded, grabbing her wine glass. "I agree, darling. I should've had it, it looked delicious."

"Nah, you gotta keep up that great figure going for me."

"Oh, Randy, don't be so crass."

"You look hot tonight, mama."

Her eyes sparkled in the candlelight. "I love it when you wear that red tie."

"I know. Why do you think I did?"

She put her glass down, smiling at him. "Your mother called me last night."

"Oh, yeah?"

"She wanted to know when we're having a baby."

Randy felt sweat slide down behind his ear. "A baby, huh?"

She nodded, and waited.

Waited for his reaction.

Waited for his permission.

Randy coughed, then shrugged, throwing his hand out. "Well, do you want to have a baby?"

"Of course, Randy."

"I'm just askin', sweetheart."

Beth grimaced slightly. "I hate when you call me that, you sound like Sinatra."

"Sinatra can sing, but he certainly can't screw like I can."

"Randy!"

Randy slid back, smirking. "Getting you all hot and bothered, sweetheart?"

She frowned and drank her wine.

He sighed. "If you want to have a baby, Bets, then let's have a baby."

"You want one, don't you?"

Randy glanced at the door casually, reaching for his drink, but he stopped and looked again, longer this time.

Maryse came in, elegant and sophisticated, hair all done up, flowing over one shoulder. She was on Mike Mizanin's arm, the douche bag with the fucking fedora permanently attached to his head.

Randy's eyes followed her as they walked across the room, to a secluded table in the back.

But she saw him too, and winked as she went past.

"Randy?"

Randy waited a minute before he turned back, meeting Beth's trouble gaze. "Yeah, sweetheart?"

She frowned. "Do you want one or not?"

He pulled at his tie. "Well… Of course I do, Bets."

She smiled. "Oh, I'm so excited now."

"Hey, me too." He stood up, hand reaching for her. "How about we start right now?"

Beth met the glint in his eye and placed her fingers in his.

And there he was, smirking back at Maryse as he walked out with the woman with the giant rock on her finger. The woman he'd married. The woman he'd devoted his life to.

At least, for tonight.

A/N: I had to use free translation because I'd feel weird if I called up my mom or my boyfriend's grandma and asked her how to say something dirty in Italian. Also, writing Randy as a pseudo-mobster/Italian was fucking HOT. I want him to really be like that.

All Miz bashing was purely in Randy's POV. I happen to like Miz quite a lot.

Review, bitches. Next one I come up with will be "Garth, marriage is punishment for shoplifting in some countries." But that won't be after a few of them. The next one I believe is from Dylan Hardy (check her shit out) and I haven't decided which quote I'm going to use yet, but it's Christian/Beth, a fucking brilliant pair.