♡ Jazmyne ♡

May 31st, 2024 / Four Seasons / NYC

You knew it was a bad idea. 

Knew that the moment you hit send, it was a wrap. Knew that snapped and documented should have remained the final status. Not snapped, documented, and sent. At least not now. Not when you knew he was in a foul mood, as he always was after a loss. Especially such a tough loss. Overtime. 7th inning. So close to crossing the finish line only to fall short.

And maybe that’s why you went on and sent it. Knew that receiving the photos always put either a smile, smirk, or a mixture of the two, on his handsome ass face and a filthy ass message in your inbox. Usually a promise of what was to come the minute you two were alone. There was a routine of things that existed between you as it pertained to this, which was why you ignored that gnawing feeling in the pit of your stomach as you went ahead and sent over the set of images. All of the images you'd taken. A bit of a deviation from the norm. Typically, you’d select your favorite two, maybe three, and allow the rest to remain safely stored in your hidden album.

Not this time.

It all happened so suddenly. You were on the bed, on your side, thighs instinctively rubbing together as you tried to push away filthy thoughts about what was guaranteed to happen the minute he returned from his post game workout.

Knew it’d be some time, as he tended to push himself even harder after a loss. As if it was some sort of self-inflicted punishment. But you also knew that it was ultimately for the best, because without that outlet, he’d take that frustration out on you. And you weren’t here for it.

Been there. Done that. You learned your lesson about that, and so had he.

Thus, you just had to wait. But that didn’t mean you couldn’t…..prepare for his return.

You’d just started to snake your hand down your body to tend to that aching, throbbing spot in between your legs when the sound of the door opening made you jump up in bed.

Your eyes landed on him, as you briefly noticed the glistening sheen of sweat across his forehead and reddish hue to his cheeks. The same flustered expression you always noticed during and after his workouts. But you also know that those workouts always result in him sweating a hell of a lot more than what stands before you.

Thus, the frown.

He couldn’t have been gone more than twenty minutes, and yet he was done already? That’s not even long enough for his warm-up.

“What are you—“

It felt fucking inhuman. The way he seemed to teleport from the arched "doorway" to the edge of the bed where he yanked you by your ankles and dragged you down the mattress. 

Motion that resulted in the several sizes too small top of yours to ride up, leaving your big, heavy breast freed and exposed to the chill of the room. Roman’s eyes briefly flicked upward, and once more, your pussy pulsed. The darkened gaze and lick of his lips making your stomach twist and knot.

He’s always been so fascinated with your chest. It still blows your mind and makes you wet to think about your first time. The way he couldn’t keep his hands off them. The way he sucked on them. Light bruises left behind the morning after, providing undeniable evidence of his affinity.

He also wasn't lying when he said he likes to see them bounce when you’re on top. But that’s clearly not his current desire, and it’s proven when his gaze ventures lower and settles on that same aching spot you were seconds away from tending to when he prematurely interrupted your self care. 

His jaw tightens and shifts subtly, like he always does when he wants to say something but doesn’t. The glaze of his eyes and lick of his bottom lip following you unintentionally starting to squeeze your legs together only for his hands to shift upward. His fingers dig into your thighs with just enough pressure to keep them still only for him to seconds later push just enough to make em’ spread. 

The thin fabric of your thong further twisted inside your wet, thick pussy lips, his eyes gradually shifting from left to right. You realize he’s reading the single word etched in pink across your fupa. 

Please

It makes you wonder if he even gave himself the time to read what was stretched across your top. Doubtful, considering it sprung up the moment he turned you over.

Come Here, Daddy

Probably so. That’s why he’s here. 

And it’s confirmed when he abruptly flips you over onto your stomach. Your body is ahead of your brain as you instinctively flatten your palms into the mattress and lift up. Only for his hand to push down on the top of your back, your ass naturally hiking and springing up for him.

“Fuck,” he curses. You close your eyes when he drops his hand to your ass, rubbing and kneading before squeezing, hard enough to make you bite down on your bottom lip. “Look at you. Ain’t even touched you yet, and she already dripping for me.”

It’s only when his hand glides past the soaked portion of your thong that’s entangled deep in your pussy, and he pries that material to the side so two fingers take its place, that you realize he’s right. He works his fingers in and out of you, eliciting wet, squelching sounds as you start to move your ass back against him, effectively fucking his hand. Your thong still tugged to the side, held steady by his hand making the material dig into the crevice between your vagina and thigh, but an inconsequential thing in comparison to the pleasure you receive in return. 

Arching your back to open yourself wider, you squeeze at the sheets as your sensitive nipples grow stiff from the friction of brushing back and forth against the sheets. That wet feeling traveling down the back of your thigh as does his mouth near the top of your ass. 

He says something, but it’s lost under the loud moan that escapes your lips when he slaps your ass and smears your juices across the length of your sopping cunt, teasing a finger near your puckered asshole. 

You gasp and bite back another moan, and he chuckles before starting to finger you again. Except the tight, full feeling that accompanies this insertion tells you that he’s added another finger, which also lets you know what he’s building towards.

Or rather, where he already is, because movement and shuffling behind is followed up with another louder gasp. A warm, hard, thick, familiar sensation that has you whimpering as he drags the length of his dick up and down your sticky lips, collecting your dripping arousal like a keepsake. He palms your ass cheeks, prying them apart and inching forward just enough for you to feel that thick dickhead probing your pussy hole.

It’s only then you break your silence, moaning softly, “Roman….”

“You said you wanted daddy’s dick, right?” He asks, and you look over your shoulder to see his shirt discarded, his eyes quickly lifting and locking to yours. “So be a good girl for daddy and take this dick.”

He juts forward, and in one fluid, swift motion, that dick teasing your entrance has suddenly made its arrival. A glide that’s welcomed by your slick, wet, welcoming walls, as he eases inside of you, nudging at the soft, soppy opening.

“Shit,” you curse. Louder than intended. Eyes clamping shut, you look ahead, the drop your head, chin resting against your glistening chest. The feel of his fingers is nothing compared to the fullness that is his dick, and he’s not even all the way in. 

“Shhh,” he hushes amidst your moans and whimpers and continues to work his way inside of you. “Just a little bit more, sweetheart.” 

Roman is a fucking liar. 

You two have fucked more than enough times for you to be able to tell when he’s fully sheathed, and when he’s barely all the way in. He’s probably several inches away from reaching his destination, and you know this based on the way you wince as he continues to force you to open up for him, nudging and prodding, your pussy pulsing around his turgid member. It’s equally uncomfortable as it is delicious. 

“Goddamn, you squeezing the hell out of me,” he groans, smoothing his palm over your left ass cheek. “All this time and you still struggle to take dick.”

If not for the way he’s currently splitting you the fuck open, you might have a better resort, but the priority to take it outweighs the desire to come up with a much better rebuttal than the one offered.

You groan quietly. “It’s—it’s too big.” A deep breath shoots past your partially ajar lips. You try to focus on the squeezing sensation in your stomach instead of the one between your legs. Inhale as deeply as you can before exhaling for the same amount of time. In and out. Breathing that accompanies the descension, just as he taught and talked you through the first time you two fucked.

The night he took your virginity. 

“Mmm, but I make it fit, don’t I?” He taunts, that deep ass voice dripping with more conceit than your cunt that continues to work to accept his unforgiving thickness. “Make this tight pussy open up and take what she needs.” You blow out a deep, rushed breath as he bypasses the easing and jams the rest of him inside so he’s bottomed out. “And you do such a good job for me with that. Letting me fill you up till all you feel is me.”

Mere moments are allotted for adjustment as he starts to fuck you, slowly and steadily, that thoughtful pace quickly, however, transitioning into something quicker and deeper. Squelching conjoined with slapping, one hand twisted in your curls, the other on your hip keeping you upright and in the perfect position for your greedy pussy to suck and squeeze around his equally greedy penis.

“I don’t know why you play these games with me, Honey,” he groans. Your whimpers absorbed by the sheets when he shoves you down so that your cheek is mushed into the bed. It deepens your arch, making your ass bounce off his dick like a basketball on the court. Back to back to back. “Sending me that shit and expecting me to not drop everything to come remind you why you call me daddy.”

Once more, a pulsing and throbbing as that damp feeling on the back of your thighs spreads all over your lower half. Near the crevice in the back of your knee. The underside of your ass. Even down the slope of your soft stomach. Each delicious thrust evoking from you another several ounces of juices that are certain to have you both soaked before it’s all said and done. 

“Speaking of, tell me where I’m at, baby,” he hums, and you attempt to lift up just enough to look over your shoulder. To see the way he’s likely staring in mesmerization at the synchronized movement of you two. His hammering with your throwing. Give and take. Creamy dick coated by equally creamy pussy. “Tell me so I can dig in you deeper that way all you feel is me for the next few days.”

You open your mouth, only to inhale cotton when he leans his body over yours. It adds a weight on top of you that further smushes you into the bed, but it also changes that angle at which he’s fucking you. That new spot he’s slamming into repeatedly all but ready to make you scream bloody fucking murder. 

An accurate euphemism in a sense given the way he’s killing your shit. 

But it’s too much. You can feel him everywhere. No separation between your bodies, no time in between those deep, hard, angled strokes, that it has you gasping for breath in between moans and whimpers. Your face is a furnace, flustered, warm and overheated. Sensations that are traveling throughout your body. 

Powering through the overstimulation, you lift up just enough to get a few words out seconds before he pushes you right back down. “Roman, wait, I can’t—I can’t take anymore.”

“Yes, you can,” he dismisses, deep voice clear and tight. His mouth near your ear as he smiles wickedly against your cheek. “Don’t act like I don’t know how to take care of my pussy.” 

And just like that, overstimulation is irrelevant. Something about his arrogant reminder, that undisputed fact regarding his vast knowledge of your body and all the ways to make you come undone remind you of your place. Remind you that he knows exactly what he’s doing and exactly what you need. 

Even if you don’t. 

Another groan drags your focus as he again spreads one cheek apart, snaking his finger around front to toy with your engorged clit. His fingers being met with a slip and slide of your juices that make his motions and pressure of said motions elevate you to yet another plane of pleasure. 

That tsk tsk tsk sound in your ear followed by a deep chuckle as he continues to fuck you numb. “Saying it’s too much but you milking the shit out of me.”

This time, you’re unable to deny what your body knew from that first initial touch. “Because it—God—it feels so good.”

“I know it does, baby,” he murmurs, continuing to rub your clit in slow, torturous strokes. “But I promise you feel even better.” He spreads his fingers so that they’re fanned out over the length of your vulva, centimeters from where his dick has your greedy cunt hugs him smug and tight. “Fuck, you’ve got some good ass pussy. Fat and pretty, matter of fact…..”

A loud plop follows him suddenly pulling out, leaving your pussy empty and pulsing, as if unable to accept the absence of what belongs. Similar to your neglected clit as he retracts his hand, too. However, both sources of discomfort that have you seconds from whining are wiped away with the single swipe of his thick, warm tongue up your cunt.

“Shit!” 

Your fingers retract inward, fisting the sheets when he parts your cheeks like Moses parted that river to allot him greater access. His rapacious lapping and sucking of your pussy exacerbating that tension in your thighs and weakness in your arms as you scream into the bed through closed, pressed lips.

You resume throwing your ass back against him, effectively fucking his face while he holds your hips and continues to eat you out until you’re seconds away from collapsing and coming all over his face. But Roman is fucking psychic. He has to be. 

Because just when you’re on the brink of explosion, he pries his mouth away, groaning loudly, squeezing your hip. “I could eat it all day.” He slaps and jiggles your ass, making you wince and moan again. “But first, I wanna feel you come on this dick.” You barely have time to register his words when he slides back inside, you wet, slippy pussy greedily accepting him back with zero pushback. She accepts him happily and without hesitation. But another gasp escapes when his hand wraps around your neck and forces you back and upward. His wet fingers, sticky with your cum, mixing with the thin film of sweat that covers your used, exhausted body. “Can you do that for me, Honey?” He breathes, brushing his mouth near yours, drenched beard and lips against your now equally sticky, wet cheek. Your eyes clench shut, that clapping sound of skin on skin the last thing you can focus on before you soak in the bliss and drown in the pleasure. “Can you come on daddy’s dick and continue to show me what a good girl you are for me?”

Minutes later, you do just that. Squirt all over his dick, the aftershocks of your orgasm still having your body trembling as he finishes inside of you.

An hour later, sheets changed, bodies cleansed and moisturized following a shared shower he attempted and failed to turn into another round—he might actually have a problem—you two are laid up in bed. You’re on your back, eyes closed, his big, heavy arm draped over your stomach. His right hand underneath your shirt, palming your left itty. 

His thumb lightly swiping your nipple making you smile into the dark of the room, illuminated solely by the lamp on the other side near the mounted flat screen TV. 

“You’re not very good at keeping your hands to yourself, are you?”

“Never seemed to bother you before.”

You roll your eyes and sigh quietly. “Didn’t say it does.”

“So why are you saying anything at all?”

At that, you turn to look at him, seeing that his eyes are closed. He has his hair pulled back, and you’re tempted to reach and undo the hair tie. There’s something about his beautiful, onxy tresses down and free that you like. Enjoy seeing. Enjoy raking your fingers through to massage his scalp as he lays his head on your chest and holds you close. Similar to the way he’s rubbing on your titties. 

“You can be a dick sometimes, you know that?”

He makes a sound, eyes still shut, fingers dancing along the swell of your breast. “Poor choice of words, sweetheart. You gon’ start something that I won’t stop until you finish.”

Your pussy might jump at his suggestive threat but that sensation is quickly followed up with a heavy, throbbing feeling that’s more discomfort than anything. Certainly nothing like the throbbing from earlier in the evening. 

“I’m sore, Roman.”

“My mouth ain’t.”

“Oh my—” Twisting your body in the bed, effectively making his hand drop from your chest. You push on his own, his skin warm and hard underneath your palm. “You’re such a freak.” 

He grabs your wrist and takes advantage of you facing him. With one easy, swift motion, he tugs you against him and lays on his back, dragging you down with him. Naturally, you wrap your arm around him and lay your head on his chest, snuggling close to the crook of his neck. Eyes closing, you breathe him in and bite down on your bottom lip as he once more snakes his hand under your shirt and rests it on the small of your back.

He kisses the top of your head. You hold him tighter.

Between the soft sheets, foam mattress, and the solid, comforting embrace of the man holding you, it doesn’t take much for the exhaustion of the day to finally take its toll and come for its receipt. 

Your lids grow heavy as do your limbs, the transition from consciousness to unconsciousness just beyond the horizon when he shatters the silence.

“Y/N…”

The frown is almost instantaneous. The shift in his deep voice unmistakable. You lift your head to look down at him, stomach immediately knotting at the expression on his face. The perfect marriage between stoicism and hesitation. 

Shit

“Wh—”

Another interruption arrives in the form of a short, sharp ding. A familiar one. Your phone. 

The frown deepens as you turn around and your eyes dart to the clock on the nightstand. 2:15AM. No one ever reaches out at such a time for anything good. 

It’s what has you reaching for your phone, Face ID immediately unlocking it, thus you simply having to navigate to your messages when you see the red number on top of the green icon. 

And the minute you do, see the name, read the message, guilt immediately smashes into you like one of the fastballs thrown by the pitcher who snagged the win for the Giants tonight. 

Erik: Hey bae. Just got back to the hotel. Thinking of you a lot. Miss you something serious tonight. Remember our first date? I was so nervous that I accidentally tripped over my shoe strings and you spilled your milkshake all over your pretty lil’ dress. Lol. We was so young and stupid. Idk. I’m being sentimental and shit. Just kno I love you girl. Even if I might not be the best at showing it. 

You must read it several times over. Again. Again. And again until the words blur more than the hodgepodge of feelings swirling throughout your stomach. 

What….what are you doing?

Laid up with a man 14—15 now, technically, what with his birthday last week—years your senior. A man who’s not the one who just unintentionally a triggered an onslaught of confusing ass emotions and endless questions with a simple expression of love and adoration. The things you should feel for him. You do.

You just….you also feel something for the man beside you as well. 

A man who, when you look back over your shoulder, you realize is sitting up now, too. That he’s already looking at you. Because he was already looking over you. Over your shoulder and at the the phone.

He saw the text. He read the text.

It’s painfully evident in the way unreadable has quickly morphed into irritation. 

Shit

“Roman—”

“You should go.”

It takes a moment for the words to register. Or perhaps it’s the subconscious part of you that’s waiting for him to break out in that small, smug smile. To make a lewd comment and turn over in bed. But when none of that happens, all you’re left with is the shock that’s swimming with confusion and stained with indecision. “Wh—what?”

The scowl deepens as does the way his eyes squint and mouth shifts. “If you love him, mean so much to him and he means so much to you, why don’t you take your ass and go find him, huh?” By the end of his acrid, frigid dismissal, your mouth is ajar, eyes slightly widened. Weight in your chest intensified when he gestures with his arm and chin in an equally dismissive manner. “Get up out my room.” 

Just like the text that completely shifted your mood, Roman’s unexpected demand does just the same. But it’s somehow worse. Erik’s text unnerved you. Roman’s demand….it hurts. It hurts as much as the guilt from betraying the man you claim to love should. 

But it doesn’t. 

You swallow again, lowering your phone and locking it. “Roman—” The attempt to reach for him met with his sudden jerk away followed up with a low curse as he kicks the blankets off. “Ro—”

“I said what I said, Y/N. Get out.” 

He climbs out of bed and you attempt to follow, doing the same, calling after him. 

“Roman, please. It’s the middle of the nig—”

He spins around and you stop dead in your tracks. You've seen this expression before. In an intense exchange during games. The ones that resulted in him having to cool off in the dugout or his teammates, usually Swerve, having to talk him down off the ledge. Frequent early on in his career, less so in more recent years. But it’s still there.

And you’re standing right in front of it. “You think I give a fuck?” Another emotional slap that has you appalled and floored, words incapable of leaving your mouth. He steps closer motioning once more with his hands towards the space that leads to the living room area of his suite. And the door. “The same way you walked your ass in here is the same way you walk your ass out.” 

You’ve never considered yourself a violent person. Have only ever gotten into one fight, and it was less a fight and more two middle school girls swatting hands and moving in circular motions that resulted in nothing more than a week of detention and letters of apologies to the involved teachers. Thus, getting upset, getting angry, isn’t something that happens to you often. 

But it’s happening right now.

So much so that when you reach and pull on his arm when he turns to walk away again, the way he jerks his arm back and looks up and down, at your face and the point of contact with disgust, barely registers. 

You step forward and shove with all your might on his chest, partially surprised when he stumbles back. It’s so subtle, barely meets the criteria for a stumble, truly, but it creates motion, nonetheless. 

“Don’t talk to me like that.” 

He closes his eyes and rolls his neck. “I’m not gon’ tell you again, Y/N.” You refuse to back down, refuse to break eye contact, hand fisted at your side, nails digging into your palm. “You got what you wanted.” It’s that statement, however, that creates small, minute cracks in your resolve. The next one though….that’s what shatters it. He’s never looked and sounded so heartless than the way he eyes you up and down, the ice in his voice matched only by the ice that runs through your veins hearing his parting statement. “And so did I.” A beat. "Now get the fuck up out my room."

This time, when he turns to walk away, you don’t go after him. You remain perfectly still, jumping only when he slams the door to the bathroom, leaving you alone and stunned. 

Never has silence felt so loud. 

live footage of reader and roman at the end:

Current

His big hands roam down the length of your slick back, rough palms and coarse pads of his fingers digging into your skin. Palming the fleshy, meaty part of your ass followed by a slap that makes you hiss against his mouth. 

The motion of his lips on yours altered. He's smiling. Your eyes don't need to be open to see what you already know. That smug, arrogant one he gives most, if not all. Including yourself the first time you two met. Thinking back, it should have been a sign.

Many things should have been a sign. 

The rumble of his voice calls to you as he presses a kiss to the corner of your swollen lips, continued, heavy panting and moans slipping out every time he thrusts up inside of you. "You miss me, baby?"

Yes. 

Ignoring him only serves as a detriment. You gasp when he grips the back of your neck, fingers digging into your skin. Your eyes flutter looking down at him, the motion of you grinding on top of his dick making you moan through pressed lips. 

"Daddy asked you a question."

The slap to your ass is all that's needed to get you to give him the satisfaction he's looking for. The reassurance his ego seems to need when it comes to you.

"Yes," you moan. Your hands are planted on his chest, keeping you as steady as you can as you ride him despite the burning in your thighs and budding cramps you've narrowly avoided since a few strokes of his dick after the last round was all he needed to be sprung back to life. He was hot, ready, and pulling you right back on top. It's his favorite position, it seems. 

With you, at least. 

"Missed you so much," you admit, unprovoked and without much thought but all feeling as he starts to sit up, pulling you flush against him. He kisses you, and once more, you're moaning into his mouth, hands tangled in hair that's been down, wild, and free ever since you accidentally yanked the hair tie out when you were riding his face and on the cusp of your second or third orgasm for the night. 

He makes a sound, hands back on your ass with a gentle squeeze. "I asked you to come with me," he reminds, lowly, against your lips. "Next time, I'm not askin'."

To be fair, the first "request" really didn't feel like one anyway, what with him essentially texting you what time to be at the airport. You're not sure you want to know what an actual demand looks like.

Knowing him though, it'll be something that you literally can't turn down. Even if you wanted to.

"Stop being quiet," he groans, returning his hands to your hips, speeding up your movements. "Actin' like you trying not to scream from how good I'm fucking you."

He's not wrong, and you hate that he's not wrong. Hate that you don't have a smartass retort, even if it would be out of character for you, especially when it comes to sex. 

Once he gets you in whatever position he wants you in, you more or less become dumb and mute unless it's in reference to how he's rearranging your insides or eating you out until you have to physically push him away.

Insatiable.

The girls on TikTok weren't lying when they said older men are eaters. 

Roman is living proof of that. 

"We're—we're in a h—hotel, R—oh, fuck," your attempts to counter lust with logic are lost when he slaps your ass once more while lifting you higher, making the descent down on his big ass dick that much deeper and profound, tip of his thick dickhead brushing against that spot inside of you. 

"And?" He dismisses. "Hotel, my place, jet, it don't matter, this pussy still grip me the same way every damn time." The last three words are enunciated with a precision that matches the way he fucks up into you, harder and with increased vigor." 

"Shit, wait," you pant, hands dropping to his shoulders, squeezing. "Rom—wa—wait—I ca—"

"I don't wanna hear that shit." The dismissiveness continues as does the way he's fucking you, pain perfectly mixed with pleasure. "You said you missed me, right? So shut up and take this dick like you missed it." 

You almost cream right then and there, but the ante is upped when he switches positions once more and no longer are you sitting on his lap, dick dug all up in you. You're on your back for the umpteenth time tonight, knees adjacent to your ears, his big hands on the back of your thighs, keeping you still, stuck, and at the mercy of the relentless, unforgiving strokes that have tears streaming down your face and your hands grasping and gripping for anything that can anchor you.

Not that it makes a difference.

"Look at this mess you've made," he taunts, your eyes fluttering so much that it's possible to make out the sight of him above you. But you don't need to see him to already know his gaze is focused and transfixed on the sight of him drilling your shit. He's obsessed with watching how he moves in and out of you, so much so that if the position allowed, he'd make you watch, too. Similar to how he makes you watch when he goes down on you. "Been making this pretty pussy cream on me all night, and you still can't get enough, can you?" 

The squelching sound of your pussy being squeezed and stretched by his thick dick is all the answer needed. 

"Can't get enough of daddy fucking you like this, huh?" He continues as you're once reminded that his shit talking isn't just reserved for the diamond. That shit carries over to most areas of his life, especially in the bedroom. It's as filthy as it is talented. "Always needing me to get you right and remind you where it's at."

Your whimpers, his groans, and the sploshing sounds are a sensual symphony that serve as  background music for the latest round of this man making you come completely undone and lose all sense of self, sound, and mind. 

"That's why it's mine. Ain't it, baby?" A loud gasp escapes your swollen, still wet and sticky with your juices, lips when he leans his body over yours. His hair waterfalls around your face as his hand glides between your slick bodies, the coarse pad of his thumb hovering over your clit.

"Shit," you curse, reaching for his wrist, but he ignores the way you wrap your hand around it and continues to push both physically and otherwise. 

"This my pussy, Honey?" Your eyes clench shut at the same time your pussy pulses around him. It makes him groan and curse lowly, haughtiness slipping into a place of semi desperation. Like he needs to hear you say it. Hear you confirm it. "Say it's mine, Y/N." Your eyes open and lock onto his, each reflecting the same yet different things. "Tell me you're mine." 

Minutes later, you're gushing and squirting all over his cock, your body an autonomous entity that offers an answer your brain cannot allow your mouth admit.

March 8th, 2024

The banquet hall was bathed in an array of familiar, appropriate colors. Tables draped in white tablecloths with a long, rectangular overlay that lined the middle of said tables. Silver centerpieces with flowers, blue Hydrangeas, and the famous two-letter monogram etched on any piece of item that could be monogrammed.

The live band was in the midst of changing sets when you found a chance to break away. Noticed that he'd finally broken away. Making your way through the sea of people, some known, most unknown, was actually the easy part. A small smile, quiet 'hi' that was lost among the chatter of the large group, and you were one step closer to your destination.

Though anxiety started to build when you briefly lost sight of him, hence the way you ignored the discomfort of your christian louboutin heels. You haven't the slightest clue how your mom and sister wear these things all the time. The blisters that must await you upon removal are bound to be something ugly.

However, exiting the ballroom and turning to the left allotted you a brief view of the back of him as he turned the corner. Naturally, you moved in haste to keep up with him, his long legs allowed strides that ate up 2x the distance you could in half the time. Except, anxiety jumped to a completely different level when you opened your mouth to call his name and he turned once more. Not down the hall or even to look back at you but instead inside of a room that immediately made you still and pause when you got close enough to see what it was.

"Crap," you cursed.

The men's restroom.

Of course.

You stood there, confused and wondering just what in the hell you were going to do. Truth be told, the plan that you'd jotted down in the notes app on your phone wasn't doing you much good. Especially and primarily since the initial steps you'd identified last night when you grew tired of twisting and turning with sleep continuously evading you to the point that you redirected your focus to plotting and strategizing.

But for one or more reasons, most of your better options hadn't panned out the way you hoped. Either your dad was dragging you around to network and become better aquatinted with the organization you now worked for, primarily the players you'd be working with one on one more than anything. As was the case for most team content creators. It was appreciated, sure, but none of the players whose hands you shook were the ones you needed.

But the one you needed had spent majority of the night either briefly engaging with folks, by himself, with his manager, Paul, or Swerve, another player and Roman's longtime friend, going all the way back to college where the shortstop and pitcher first met.

Even more, Roman carried with him an air that felt like an invisible barrier. One that you just knew not to cross for fear of getting on his bad side. Roman Reigns has never been known for being the most social, at least, not for things like this. You were surprised that he even attended. These sort of events, even if a celebration for the upcoming season and intended to get everyone hype for said season, weren't his thing.

Towards the beginning of his career, sure. He did all the things. Attended all the events. Shook all the hands. Did everything that he needed to in order to cement where he stands now, as one of the best to ever walk onto the baseball diamond, his HOF induction all but guaranteed. His accolades are endless, and his ranking has been said to be up there with some of the greats like Derek, Jackie, and Babe. You don't disagree with that.

So while he's stopped playing the game outside of the ballpark, hasn't for the past few years, really, you get it.

He's earned the right to do so.

10x All Star. 5x World Series Champ. 2x World Series MVP. Sponsorships on top of sponsorships. Deals on deals. The face of the Yankees, more or less, since he signed on with the team when he was 21, Roman has done almost everything one can do in this field.

Him showing up and doing what he wants when he wants just makes sense to you.

But putting all of that together just made you realize how crazy the whole thing was. Not only was the plan unhinged, but the man you'd picked to help you fulfill such plan had to be the most out-of-reach, are you serious selection one could choose.

And yet, there you were.

Doubt crept in as you shook your head and finally found a semblance of sense. Standing outside the men's restroom waiting for a man you'd never even said two words to, let alone a man like Roman, was actually just one step away from 5150 criteria.

Insanity that you couldn't act on.

However, you decided a few seconds too late to back out of a situation you should have never created in the first damn place. Or rather, you made the mistake of walking forward, opting to get some air, instead of turning back around to return to the ballroom. Because the moment you took a step forward was the same moment he took a step out. Outside the bathroom.

In front of the door.

In front of you.

Your eyes widened, and your mouth dropped ever so slightly, words escaping you. To anyone with two good eyes, Roman Reigns was about as attractive as a man could get. Tall, built, deep, sexy ass voice that could make any woman risk it all, and a confidence—ehh, arrogance—that he could 100% back up. Like most familiar with him, you'd always had a bit of a crush. Admired the older man from afar but never allowed or utilized your father's position as the Yankees Head Coach to secure a meeting. Admiration from afar worked just fine.

But standing in front of him was a completely different experience. He was even bigger in person, finer, features sharper, shoulders wider, beard as sharp and clean as the crisp outfit that was nothing more than a dark brown shirt, black dress pants, and some leather shoes that looked like they cost more than your first year of college.

What a fucking man.

It was noticing the way his warm eyes settled on you with a hint of intrigue and a trace of irritation that shook you from the trance stemmed from standing in front of this fine ass man. One of the finest men you'd ever seen.

"Hi," you squeaked, eyes closing as you shook your head and managed a small smile. "I'm Y/N. I, uhh, I'm the team's new content—"

"Coach K's daughter, right?"

You should have known you were fucked when his referring to you as the relative of someone instead of acknowledging your position barely registered, a typical pet peeve, was something you didn't even address because you were too distracted by his sexy ass voice. Once more, like everything else with him, even better in person.

"The youngest," he clarified, and it snapped you from the trance that you'd somehow fallen in yet again. It was effective, however.

"Yeah," you confirmed what should have been obvious. Your two older sisters are also professional athletes, and you know for a fact he's crossed paths with both of them a few times over the years, and while you all inherited your mother's beauty, body wise, you couldn't have been more different. You being….the other daughter should have been something that didn't need to be stated. "It's—it's nice to meet you."

You offered your hand but immediately felt like the dumbest person in the world when he simply looked down at the gesture that seemed more like an insult than anything. He didn't move an inch, hence the way you all but awkwardly brought your hand back to your side, fingers messing with the soft material of your cocktail dress.

"I—"

"Look, I'm not up for filming any content tonight—"

"That's not what I'm here for," you interrupted, and it took even you by surprise. You didn't really consider yourself a passive person, but in a situation like that, standing in front of a man like that for the reasons you were, it felt uncharacteristic. Especially after his cold, rude refusal to accept what was objectively considered a normal gesture between people.

Once more, another sign you should have heeded to.

"Okay," he started, and you internally cringed. He no longer looked intrigued or even irritated. He was nothing more than a blank, uninterested canvas that made you feel even more unnerved than you already were. "So what do you—"

"I—I just broke up with my boyfriend. Well, just as in yesterday."

If his unchanged, indifferent expression wasn't an indicator of how uncaring he was, his monotone intonation certainly is. "Sorry to hear that."

He didn't sound sorry at all.

And you couldn't entirely blame him.

A part of you wished that you could borrow some of that indifference, cause Lord knew you were tired of crying and being hurt over the disclosure your longtime boyfriend shared with you the day prior.

Erik, the boy you'd been in love with since you were 15, who you'd been faithful to since officially becoming boyfriend and girlfriend during your freshman and his sophomore year of high school, who was your first in almost every most important way, had cheated on you. Disclosed that he'd hooked up with some girl he met at a club.

Well, you considered it a hook up. He, however, didn't.

"She just…she just gave me some head, Y/N. That's it."

You so badly wanted that to be the case. It would have dulled the sting of unexpected betrayal. You knew that long distance would be a challenge. Knew it the moment he signed his deal with the Dodgers, but you'd accounted for complications regarding aligning schedules, maintaining communication, and keeping the love thriving and strong.

Not infidelity.

And it fucking hurt.

Because Erik was the first and only boy you'd dated, it also meant that that was your first heartbreak.

A part of you struggled with feeling like you were overreacting, but another louder part of you knew that you weren't. The idea of cheating on Erik never ever crossed your mind. You loved and cared too much about and for him to hurt him like that.

Too bad he didn't feel the same.

So the apathy displayed by the man in front of you evoked a sort of jealousy within. If only it evoked the ability to shut up and silence the unsolicited backstory.

If only it stopped you from digging the hole deeper.

"Yeah, he—he cheated on me, and—and we'd been together since high school. Middle school, really—"

"Don't take this the wrong way, mama." And just like that, recounting the last decade or so of your life was insignificant in the face of Roman Reigns calling you mama. A shock that deepened as he continued to throw unexpected curveballs. His gaze slowly roamed over your figure, and you prayed he couldn't tell how your thighs instantly clamped together the moment he paused at your chest. "But even with how pretty you are, I'm about five seconds from walking away because I have no ide—"

"I want you to sleep with me." It came out in a desperate rush, like you knew if you didn't say it right then and there, you never would. Looking back, that probably would have been for the best. "I mean—" You closed your eyes. "I want—I want to sleep with you. Like—like sex."

And as you forced your eyes open, you witnessed, for the first time since you cornered this man outside the goddamn bathroom, an expression that wasn't one of irritation and indifference.

He smiled.

He fucking smiled.

Amusement imbued in his smooth, baritone voice. "You want to what?"

You took a deep breath, doing your best to remember the brief lines of fragmented dialogue you'd penned down in your notes.

A deep swallow preceded warmth blooming throughout your chest and up the tips of your ears. "I know—I know your reputation when it…when it comes to women."

His lips curved into a smug smirk, interest piqued once more. "And just what is that?"

You took a pause. So far, Roman was confirming everything that you'd heard about him regarding his alleged big appetite for women.

And sex.

"That you don't do relationships," you answered. "You just…you just do women." It was a horrible way to frame promiscuity, but an accurate assessment, it seemed, when he didn't correct you. "And that—that's what I want. I—I—" You started to struggle, the intense way he was focused on you, how he kept bouncing his eyes from your mouth to your chest, to your stomach, distracting as fuck. He was throwing you all off a game you barely knew the rules of. "I just—I've never—I've never had a one night stand, but—but everyone says that the best way to get over someone is—"

"To get under someone else?" He finished for you, and it was impossible to ignore the way his eyes dipped to your chest once more. Maybe your sister was right. The red dress was definitely the right call. "I don't know too much about under." The shift in his tone, lighter and less stoic than before, snagged your attention. But it was the way his lips slid into a small, smug grin—and what he said next—that had your throat suddenly dry, parched, and dehydrated. The exact opposite of what you were starting to feel between your legs. "Titties jumping while you bounce on it has always been a personal fave of mine."

Oh my God.

But the torture was only just beginning.

"Coach's pretty little daughter wants me to blow her back out to help her get over her cheating ex—" He said more to himself, hands stuffed in his pockets as he nodded slowly before meeting your eyes again. "You know that's a disaster waiting to happen, right?"

For a reminder of why said proposal was a terrible idea, he didn't sound opposed at all. Far from it.

"It'll only be one time," you bargained. As if that whole crazy idea of yours was nothing more than a sales pitch, and maybe….maybe it was. "And—and I'll leave as soon as we're done—"

He shook his head and roamed his gaze over your body for the umpteenth time and licked his lips. You could have came right there on the spot. "You come to my room, you're not leaving till morning, sweetheart."

Oh.

You started to point out why, while that might have been a dream come true for most women, for you, that probably wasn't going to be the case. But then you realized that telling him might make him reconsider, if he was even seriously considering at all. Though the fact that he hadn't walked away as well as the way he looked like he was already counting all the different ways he wanted to bend you over had you thinking he was most definitely considering.

If he hadn't already decided on an answer.

Hence you deciding to just keep your mouth shut.

You'd just….you'd tell him when you got there. Ask…ask him to….to go slow.

Be….gentle.

If he even knows what that means.

"I won't tell anyone," you continued to offer up as many incentives as you could conjure. The desire coming from a place unknown but something that had your stomach in all sorts of knots. "I mean….obviously. I—I wouldn't want to lose my job."

"I wouldn't let that happen."

His response came swift and sharp. A detour from the brief stretch of lighthearted flirting that you two had fallen into. The gleam in his eyes matched the serious tone of his voice as he crossed his arms.

You forced yourself to not pay attention to how the stretched material around his big ass arms seemed like it was seconds away from ripping. God, he's huge. "I mean, I—I appreciate that, but I don't think—" You took a deep breath. "You're the team's star player, and yeah, my dad is the coach, but I haven't even been here—"

"Y/N," he interrupted. "I'm Roman Reigns, sweetheart." A beat. "If I say you stay, then you stay."

Oh.

There was a commanding undertone to his voice that had you struggling with thoughts that were far too inappropriate for the setting you were in but every bit what you were starting to think was going to be a reality sooner rather than later.

"Y/N."

You flinched, realizing only then that he'd stepped closer. So close that you could now make out the light freckles speckled across his T-Zone and the few strings of gray in his dark hair that you thought were mostly limited to his beard.

He tilted his head to the side and smirked once more as you tried to ignore not only how close he was but how good he smelled. God, what was wrong with you? You hadn't even been this flustered with Erik before you disclosed your crush and you two became a couple.

"You always this jumpy and chatty?" He asked, that humor returned and reflected in his eyes. Another realization made as the fluorescent lighting of the hall highlighted subtle specks of gold in honey brown. "That's alright. I like to hear you tell me how good it feels when I'm in it."

At that, your eyes widened once more. You'd heard he was….straightforward, but this felt like something entirely different. It made you feel different in a way that was uncomfortable, especially with the way the throbbing between your thighs seemed to only intensify with each passing second.

"Go find your dad." His unexpected change in tone and subjects, thankfully, drew your focus and created a successful interruption to your body's autonomous, growing need for him. For…more. "Tell him you're not feeling and that you're leaving."

You frowned, the confusion deepened. "W—what?"

A small gasp escaped your lips when he leaned over and his arm slid around your body. Your hand naturally planted on his firm chest as his traveled down your back and slid over the curve of your ass.

"You want me to fuck you, don't you?" He whispered in your ear, and it took everything in you to not moan when he ghosted his lips over the side of your face. Especially when you turned your head and unintentionally made it so your faces—lips—were mere centimeters away from one another. Those same soft looking lips lifted up once more in a small smile. "So let's fuck."

Current 

The silence that follows the final round is one that both suffocates and relieves. It breeds a sort of metaphorical asphyxiation that allots you the drive needed to pull yourself out of the destroyed bed. Sheets ruined, pillows flattened, and a headboard that no doubt left a dent in the wall behind it. 

The room tells the story you never could.

All the while you work to gather your items, ignoring the throbbing between your thighs and making a mental note to pop an ibuprofen as soon as you get back to your room. Even after all this time, taking him in all the ways you have, it seems like your body can never seem to adjust for more than a few hours. Your pussy always sore the next day, as if toying and torturing you with a reminder you have to use pills to swallow away and silence. 

Truth that can't be denied no matter how much you want to. 

"Lemme guess." You stand up, ruined dress in hand, the already thin straps that were fighting for dear life holding up your big breasts nothing but hanging, tattered remains. You'll have to steal one of his shirts or something because what once was one of your favorite dresses is no more than a makeshift skirt at this point. It only makes sense. Most things that Roman Reigns touches outside of that diamond end up nothing more than a contribution to the destruction that follows him wherever he goes.

Including you.

He waits until you turn to face him. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, boxers tugged on—when did he do that?—looking more deity than man. Your eyes travel the length of his broad shoulders, and if you looked close enough, you'd see the small indents of your nails that dug into his taut skin as he pounded you out. 

"You're not staying."

You swallow, reaching to tuck a tendril behind your hair. One of many reasons you'd shifted more towards embracing your natural kink and curls? The exhaustion and frustration at having a $200, three hour visit at the salon ruined by one night of no self-control or restrain. It wasn't worth it. From a monetary nor temporal standpoint. 

"You know I can't." 

While you work the dress-turned-skirt over your thick, chubby legs, utilizing said dressing as an excuse to break eye contact, his eyes remain fixed on you. "Can't or won't?"

Fuck.

"How long you gon' pretend to love that boy?"

Having turned around to head over to the bathroom and attempt to do whatever you can with your appearance, nothing stops you in your tracks faster than a question that hits you harder than any hardball he could ever throw. 

You turn around, ignoring the way your chest thumps when he stands up. 

"I do." 

It kills you how you're fully aware of the fact that your answer is nothing more than a poor attempt at convincing yourself more than it is an honest, truthful answer. Disgusts you in many ways, and you pray it's subterfuge known only to you.

But if Roman Reigns is nothing else, he's astute as fuck. 

"Bullshit," he curses. "But let's say you do. Let's say you do love him. You love him but love my dick—"

"Don't talk about him like that," you attempt to defend, but like most things when it comes to the man who's slowly making his way towards you, it crashes spectacularly. You're not sure if it's the age difference, the power dynamic, your naturally docile personality, his inherently dominant one, or a mixture of all of it thrown together in a pile of mess, but regardless of the cause, Roman has always had a way of making you question things.

Even yourself. 

Your eyes shut as his arm swings around your body, pulling you flush against him. Soft melting with hard. "I don't like liars, sweetheart." He murmurs, trailing his finger down your cheek. "Even if they are as pretty as you."

It takes everything in you to keep your eyes closed when he dips his head to your neck and inhales deeply. Your breath caught and voice whispered. "What—I don't know what you want from me."

Some days, you do. Others, you don't. Right about now, you're not even sure what you want for yourself. 

And he knows it.

"I think you know the answer to that, love."

The room grows silent once more. 

He's not wrong.

But he's not right, either.

When Katy Perry released Hot n' Cold back in the day, and you used to sneak and use your sisters' iPod touches to listen to said song that was deemed inappropriate because of the sole curse word, you had no idea it would end up being the perfect song to describe Roman Reigns.

He burns hot just as easily he runs cold. That charming, alluring smile can, in a matter of seconds, morph into a deep scowl or sneer right before he shuts down entirely, and his face reads just what he gives.

Nothing.

And the many faces and sides of Roman are what you lean on and choose to focus on rather than the alternative that leads to the road of recognition and acknowledgment. 

You shake your head, heat starting to bloom up the back of your neck. The room suddenly much warmer than you remember, even in the midst of your sexual tryst that started the moment he pulled you into his room and had you up against the wall, mouth slammed onto yours, fingers already working to rid you of your clothes. 

"I—I have—" Stammering accompanies you turning around to locate the rest of your items. "I have to g—"

Your eyes immediately shut in preparation for what you know  you cannot avoid nor evade.

He breathes your name as you breathe in deeply, the scent of him. His cologne still lingering on his skin despite the exertion over the past few hours. A scent that instantly reminds you of the shirts and hoodie stored in the back of your closet. His. The ones that carry that same scent, hence why one of said shirts have been your sleep attire a few times over the past few months.

If not more than a few.

Your lips gradually part as he drops his hands to your hips and pulls you into him. "Stay with me, Honey."

If it wasn't the tone of his deep voice—beseeching and sincere—it's the usage of what was once a NSFW nickname, now so much more. Sometimes you wish the first utterance and first explanation that made you blush when you heard it was what came to mind. It'd be immensely preferred over the butterflies that flutter in your stomach now whenever he calls you that.

The butterflies that have your resolve already starting to crumble.

"Roman…"

"Don't leave," he continues. A slow, shaky breath seeping past your lips when he drops his head to your neck. His beard tickling your clavicle and top of his head brushing against your chin as your breathing grows heavy when he starts planting soft kisses across your shoulder and chest. Lifting your shaking hands, the thought and intention is to lightly push him away, but it's when his own hand lifts to palm and gently squeeze your breast that you falter. 

Hesitation immediately noticed and taken advantage of, especially and primarily when your hand somehow lifts to the back of his head, his dark tresses spilling over and through your fingers. But it's when he drags his mouth back up to yours to kiss you, and the taste of you, still damp on his lips and beard, further depletes your resolve and causes you to slip into the danger zone. 

You moan. 

Moan into his mouth, and it's in that very moment, you already know how this is going to play out. Roman hikes you up onto his waist and carries you back over to the bed where he lays you down, never once interrupting the way your lips can't seem to get enough of one another. Disruption stemming from your end when you gasp into his mouth after he starts playing with your titties. 

"Stay with me. Please." The same sentiment and request continuously expressed as he once against starts to pepper your body with kisses, working his way downward until he's tugging that dress right back off. Opening your eyes, you turn your head just in time to see how it's hastily tossed to the side. But it's Roman's hands shifting to the back of your legs and pushing them up once more that redirects your focus. Except the last thing you see is the glazed, hungry gleam in his eyes before all that's left is the top of his head as he finds his pleasure once more in between your thighs.

You curse lowly, head thrown back while he sucks your tender, throbbing clit. His thick fingers keeping your pussy lips spread as he explores the length of you. Precise, controlled, pleasurable laps, licks, and sucking of your most sensitive areas making you writhe on the bed for the umpteenth time tonight.

You sit up just enough to reach for his head as he ensures your placement remains exactly where it is. Exactly where he wants you. But desire and blind pleasure are often times unintentionally contagious, because one minute your intention is to steer him as he eats you eagerly, and the next, you're pulling. Manage to tug enough on his hair to pry his mouth from your pussy. Your wet, sticky juices smeared all over the bottom half of his face. It transfers onto your own when you smash your lips back onto his, naturally laying back on the bed. Hands pushing down on his boxers, an act he gladly assists you with. The last of his clothing joins the last of yours as you feel him against your stomach. Heavy, warm, hard, and throbbing. The pulsing sensation evoking another round of moans, heightening your need and lowering your logic.

It's all Id at this point, and nothing more.

You realize as such when he reaches his arm across, near the nightstand where the almost empty box of condoms sits in wait. The fact that it's the same box from the first night you two slept together, and that it still has condoms despite the X number of times he's been inside of you is something you intentionally choose to ignore.

Not like it makes a difference now anyway.

You cup his face and shake your head, meeting his prurient gaze that you'd bet your life matches that of your own.

Your voice whispered and pained, "I just wanna feel you."  

But it's the way he looks at you, not with lust, not with the carnal hunger that's appeared in his warm eyes most times when you forgo protection, allow him to fuck you raw, it's something else. Something unnerving and far too intimate for whatever…..this is supposed to be. Especially when instead of making your body nothing short of a ragdoll as he fucks you hard and without mercy, making you cry from how good it feels. His movements are slow and deep, his hips moving in tandem with yours. His hands pinning yours above your head as you makeout with one another, tongues entangled in that familiar dance. His mouth trailing down the length of your neck, eventually freeing your wrists as your hands rake up and down his back, pulling him close and near. 

His head buried in the crook of your neck, holding you just as closely as you're holding him. One hand hooked on the back of your thigh, the other gently holding onto your hip. The filthy, haughty sex talk replaced with his deep panting and other words and phrases of affirmation that he feeds into your ear.

Ones that make your eyes shut and that feeling that only seems to grow stronger the longer this goes on extrapolate and reach another level. And even when it's all over, when he makes you come for the 5th or 6th time tonight, your pussy tender, swollen, with his cum still leaking out from when he finished inside of you, that feeling remains. Feels rooted and locked in like the way he's got his big arm swung over you, keeping you against him, his soft snores in your ear as you stare at the wall in the dark, quiet room. 

A part of you wants to try to leave. Knows that you should. But even if Roman wasn't such a light sleeper and would no doubt object at you leaving out in the middle of the night by yourself, you're not entirely sure if that would be the reason you'd stay.

Not because of his interference but your lack of wanting.

Of wanting to leave.

Sure, maybe some part of you does, but the larger, louder part wants you to stay exactly where you are.

With him.

And that terrifies you.

This has all gotten so out of hand. Every time you try to say that this time is the last time, you end up being made out to be a bigger liar than you were before the meritless oath was made. It's so out of character. All of it. This isn't who you are. You're not a cheater. Yes, Erik's cheating is, in a way, what started all of this, but the moment you decided to give him another chance was also the moment you should have kept your one night stand with Roman just that.

One night only.

Because now it's turned into countless nights. Even more, sexual trysts in the sheets have become, in the strangest of ways, the least of the things that connect you to the man beside you. Perhaps it'd be easier to walk away if it was just the sex. If Roman was still that older, whorish man who had a single purpose. This man so far removed from what you go for—from Erik—that it seemed almost inconceivable you'd even had the gall to initially approach him.

But you did, and that one decision has almost entirely changed the trajectory of your life. 

Because Roman Reigns is no longer this….entity. He's a person. He's just Roman, and Roman, despite his public image, is a quiet, almost introverted man who has a low tolerance for most and a no bullshit policy for all. He's as charismatic as he can be an asshole. But peel back the layers of an arrogant playboy, and you'll see that there's more to him than meets the eye.

So much more.

Most of which—if not all—you've seen and learned firsthand over the past few months.

Loyal. Caring. Considerate. Generous. Selfless. Roman, the man, is someone who does any and everything he can for his family. Everything he does is for them, and he'd said as such one night during the many pillow talks you two engaged in. Growing up in such a large family and losing his father when he was only thirteen in a robbery gone wrong created a sort of pressure for and on him. Some from within. Some external.

With his father's murder and him being the only male in the house, he was forced into a role no young boy should have to take on.

He was the man of the house and carried that burden with him all the way into adulthood. He's a provider. Did odd jobs around the neighborhood to earn some extra cash that he gave to his mom until he was old enough to get a "real" job that he held for all four years of high school, even while still being on the baseball team. Decided to leave college just one year short of graduating as almost any and everyone around him at that time kept reiterating how he was a "sure pick" for the draft. That there was no question he'd get drafted. He was too damn good not to. Racked up a number of accolades that'd drawn the attention of the MLB before he even finished his freshman year. 

They were right.

He ended up being the number one pick in the draft, and while most of the world believes he chose to not finish school because he just wanted to kickstart his career, education be damned, you know that couldn't be father from the truth.

Not finishing college, is, as he'd shared with you that night as you sat next to him on the porch of his mom's home, is one of his biggest regrets. It was part of the reason he was so career driven and focused, only cared about being the best and succeeding, even if it cost him personally. Because he carried the weight of needing to support and take care of his family.

Just as his father would have. 

You wonder if he knows how proud his dad would be of him. Wonder if he'd believe it. Believe you. 

As confident he is in most areas of his life, peeling back the layers has also revealed certain vulnerabilities you'd have never guessed the man next to you struggles with. Again, humanization of the man behind the brand. 

The same man you've seen in such a different light over the months, and perhaps it's that man that's kept you where you are. Like a boomerang that only knows how to return because anything else just isn't an option. Goes against the nature and order of things. 

And as you turn over in bed and study his sleep face, reach to trace the outline of his features, glimpses flash through your head like a slideshow in a presentation intended to educate. 

To defend and prove a point.

The curve of his smile, and not the one he flashes for photos and even when he has to turn on the charm, but the one you noticed he uses when talking with Swerve, with you, and especially and predominately, when he's with his family. The laugh that's somehow both quiet and a cackle that's almost always accompanied by him placing his hand over his chest or stomach. The hilarious reaction driven facial expressions that emote more than anything the public has seen, especially, again, when he's with his family.

And then you hear it.

As if standing in the yard again.

The sound of his nieces and nephews laughing, yelling, and shouting out all sorts of commands as Roman runs around with them. His niece on his back, his nephew with a mitt in one hand and ball in another. You see the way takes his time, explaining and instructing, offering both guidance and support. The way he holds his niece who lays her head on his shoulder and whispers in his ear things that make him smile and wink as he tickles her stomach.

The way he held his latest niece. Not even six months, little legs kicking and loud babbles coming from her mouth as if she was communicating with him. 

The way he look—

You stop and close your eyes. Shift so that you're laying on your back. 

Too much.

Too close.

A shaky, uneven exhale escapes your mouth when you manage to open your eyes, met with a blurred view of the ceiling. Tears managing to roll down your cheeks as you swallow the lump in your throat.

This has to stop.

You can't keep doing this.

To Erik. 

To Roman.

To yourself.

To—

Again, a forced stop. Your mind protecting you from what you still haven't allowed yourself to fully process.

It's all too much. 

Erik. Erik. Erik is the one. 

The one who gave you your first kiss.

He gave you your first orgasm.

The only who's always made you laugh.

He makes you smile.

The one who you always wanted to be around.

He's the one who you can't not be around. 

The one who checks all the boxes.

He's created and checked boxes you didn't know were boxes. 

The one who's always just wanted to make you happy.

He does make you happy. 

The one you love.

He's the one you're in—

And once again, you manage to silence that voice in the back of your head. Strip from her that voice that's far too loud and far too jarring.

Roman…Roman was a chapter, but he was never meant to be the final chapter. 

Erik holds that spot. The safe one. 

Roman is far from safe. The epitome of risk and unstable. There's no foundation with him. Nothing that's solid and foolproof, anyway. 

Erik is. 

The book started with him, and it has to end with him.

If only you could stop the way your heart hurts and mind wanders, the desire to turn the page and see if there's a secret epilogue. Or a sequel that follows. 

A different sort of ending. 

If only.

May 19th, 2026

“Oooh yes, fuck this pussy, daddy.” 

The sound of the bed creaking and the headboard slamming repeatedly against the wall with each bounce of your body on his dick is the backdrop for your filthy sex talk. Your hands playing with your heavy breast, nipples twisted between your fingers. His own big hands can’t decide if they wanna stay on your thick hips, help keep you steady while riding, or if he wants to explore the rest of your body. Covering your hands with his own, the two of you playing with your titties together.

Your favorite though is when he drags one of them talented ass hands down the front of your slick, glowing body to play with your clit. And he knows that. You know that he knows that, hence that smug expression on his handsome ass face.

A face you can’t wait to sit on before the end of the night. Him only eating your pussy once today just isn’t enough. Not when God gifted this man with a tongue like that. 

Blessed him with all the things, really. Including the beautiful, thick nine inch dick that’s got you feeling like you’re about to be split into two. A welcomed destruction, cause damn does it feel good.

“Look at you.” He slaps your hip, smoothing his palm down your backside. You bite your bottom lip as he wiggles his fingers between your ass cheeks, index finger probing your puckered hole. “You can’t get enough of this dick.”

“Mmmm.” You’re far too fucked out, leaning over just enough for you to smack your ass up and down his cock, slapping and smacking sounds increasing in volume from you essentially twerking on his dick. “S-s-so good, d-daddy.”

“Such a fucking greedy slut,” he groans, another slap to your ass before he’s back to steering you. Helping you bounce up and down, eyes transfixed on the swinging motion of your titties. “Can’t even fucking think straight when I’m buried in you like this, can you?”

No. Not at all. Not even a little. But as smug as this handsome bastard is, there still remains just enough of your wherewithal to not grant him the privilege of confirmation. You keep your lips pressed together, hand reaching for the headboard to steady you. Your thighs are burning like crazy, and you’ve had to flex your calves at least three times to smooth out the cramp that’s been dying to stilt you ever since he propped you on his dick.

You’re close. So so so close, but you’re also not ready. Not that it makes a difference. You already know he’s got at least one more position to put you in before he finally finds his release.

For a man in his forties, it’s almost embarrassing how well he can outdo you in the bedroom. This’ll be your third orgasm since he returned a few hours ago from his meeting with Paul and Nick. 

He hasn’t come at least once. Not even when you were gagging on his dick, drool seeping out the corner of your swollen, pink lips. If you didn’t know for a fact that he was seconds away from shooting his load down your throat before he pushed you away, put you on all fours, and rammed that big dick in your wet, waiting pussy, you might have been offended. But you know better.

You know him.

“You close, ain’t you, baby?” He taunts, your closed eyes not preventing your from picturing the way them soft ass lips are either still lifted for that smug smile or a knowing smirk. Sometimes you really do hate how cocky he is. Unfortunately, unlike most men, he can back it up. “I can tell by the way she pulsing around me. Fluttering and shit.”

“Mmmm.” Once more, incoherent mumblings are the most you can offer him, the grind and drag of your soft body against his firm ass body granting your neglected clit the attention you’d been wanting. Waiting eagerly for him to address, and he knows it.

“You want me to play with that pussy, baby?” He purrs, and you swear there’s a fresh wave of your juice that gushes out your pussy, small streams seeping past the unforgiving grip your cunt has around his cock. Slippery and drenched, you’re leaking all over his chest, the combination of sweat and your conjoined juices creating an unsteady, unreliable surface. Hence your grip on the headboard and thus the way you’re relegated to grinding to get your fix. “Want daddy to eat it till you pushing me away talking about you can’t take it?”

Tale as old as time. Your husband is an eater through and through. Loves to give just as much as he loves to receive. It’s the best kind of “problem” to have as it pertains to a sex life. He never leaves you wanting more. Always satisfied, satiated, and stuffed.

Just like you are right now.

“Naw. You gotta earn that shit, slut.” His voice cuts through your fantasies, evoking a pout and whine just as he juts his chin in your direction. His eyes twinkle with mischief and devilry. “Keep riding.” 

“How early you wanna fly in to Turin?”

His question stirs you from the much deserved and desired sleep that’s been calling your name ever since you finally tapped out after he came all over your back. He more or less had to hold you up in the shared shower and carry you to the bedroom with the freshly changed sheets he made sure to put on before you both climbed back into bed.

You make a sound, nails lightly brushing across his chest as his own lazily dance up and down the small of your back. He’s scrunched up your thin, lavender gown, leaving the sheets and duvet clinging to your nude, glowing body. But it’s the norm. He’s always been touchy feely like that, and it’s never bothered you. 

You’re more or less the same.

“Doesn’t matter,” you finally answer. “The usual is fine.”

The usual being touching down via his private jet about a week before a show. It provides him time to get in match day headspace and you the time to squeeze in some exploring and swiping of his black American Express card. But more importantly, it allows adequate opportunity for you two to just spend time together. As proud as you are of him for his big win at Mania and ascension back to the top of the mountain, him being home more was something you’d gotten used to.

Life is just easier when he’s around. 

Until it’s not.

“Okay,” he says. You wait for him to follow up with something. Most likely a reminder that the boys will fly in with ya'll or even whatever tentative agenda and schedule he's been given at this time. But he remains quiet and just continues to caress your back, embracing the post coital relaxation and silence.

It’s the perfect opportunity to grant your exhausted body the recharge it desperately needs. Especially given your busy day tomorrow. Hop on the jet to fly back home in the morning. Filming, editing, and posting of the material you recorded while accompanying him to this Raw all scheduled to be done before the clock hits midnight.

It just makes sense to close your eyes and allow yourself to drift off to sleep. The smart thing, perhaps.

But no one ever said you were smart.

“You know…..” You inch closer, nestling your head against his inked chest. It’s a somewhat subconscious thing what with the way you angle your mouth close to his rib cage. Speech slightly murmured, partially obscuring the clarity and muffling the volume. “Naomi brought over David the other day.” For your own sanity and perhaps to allot you some faux sense of security, you choose to ignore the way his body tenses under yours. “He’s so adorable. Looks more and more like—“

“Y/N.” A single word, and the roles are precipitously reversed. You’re the one growing quiet, and he’s the one who fills that silence. “Don’t.”

You swallow, peering up at him. “Don’t what?”

His jaw ticks, the glow of the moon peering through the opposite window highlighting the shadows of his defined face. His grays splattered throughout a sea of otherwise onyx more or less the same in the dim lighting. “Don’t start this shit again.”

“How am I starting something?” You challenge. A part of you screaming to let it go, to let it be as it is, but another part of you, the part that you’ve never been able to truly silence, is begging to be unleashed. The protector protecting from dangers real and imagined “I’m literally just talking to you.”

Unfortunately for you, your husband has never been one to back down. To not accept and meet a challenge with the same energy brought you the table. He's a mirror of yourself in many ways. “No, you’re trying to have that conversation again, and I’m not in the mood to argue with you.”

“Argue over what?” You suck your teeth, sitting up and looking down at him. Frustration ticks when he diverts his gaze and runs his hand over his face. “Roman.”

His answer is to make the same sound as he sits up and turns away. You also sit all the way up, thin sleeve of your gown drooping over your exposed shoulder. You study the defined line of his back, starting to visually trace the sharp outlines of the dark ink. “How many times do gotta do this shit, Y/N?” He looks over his shoulder but not directly at you, and for some reason, that almost hurts more than the reaction, deep down, you knew you were going to get. “Same song and dance every fucking time.” Something tightens in your stomach when he does finally meet your eyes, however, his own reflect nothing but irritation and exasperation. “I said no, and that’s final.”

Once more, an opening is created. An escape and jump off a mountain that only leads to an increasingly difficult uphill battle. The wise choice, the best choice, is to retreat. Leave it be.

If only your heart wasn't so much louder than your head.

Eyes narrowed, the timbre of your voice carries with it ammunition ready and waiting to be unleashed. “Yeah, you did say no, but not before you said 'yes,' and then ‘no’ before that and then another ‘yes' sprinkled somewhere in between.” You throw your hands up, the frustration that swims between the two of you about what and what on both ends. “You can’t make up your mind.”

It’s a fact he can try to deny all he wants, but it doesn’t make it any less true. From the moment you two met two years ago, at least, the parts that you can remember, it’s been nothing but back and forth. One minute he’s blowing your back out, hands locked behind you, whispering nasty words and broken promises. 

“You gon’ give me a baby, princess? Hmm. A little girl for me to spoil just like I spoil her mama.”

The next, it’s nothing but a slightly different scene than the one transpiring now. Him pacing across the bedroom, hand on his hips, upper cheeks flushed from vexation with a topic that’s been revisited, reviewed, and recycled ten times over now. 

“I don’t know why you keep bringing this shit up, Y/N. We’re not having any fucking kids together. Ever.”

He swings from one end to the pendulum to the other. Getting your hopes up only to dash em’ back down with all of the cruelty that, one could argue, got him to where he is today, career wise.

It’s also, however, what cost him everything, too. 

“Well, my mind is made up now, and the answer is the same it’s been the last three goddamn times you brought this shit up.” He pierces your internal monologue with another reiteration of what makes your shoulders drop and scowl shift into a frown. “No.”

It could be left at that, and maybe it should be, but once the flood gates are opened, that’s it. 

There’s no turning back.

You move to sit on your knees, his expression, just like his current stance, unchanged and undeterred.

“Do you know how unfair you’re being?” You shake your head, hating how a newfound emotion is trying to creep its way into your voice. This isn’t the time for that. “All this back and forth. It’s mind games. You’re playing mind games with me, Roman, and it’s not fair.”

It’s not fair how he’ll get your hopes up only to crush them with the stomp of his metaphorical boot, throwing out excuse after excuse, reason after reason. 

“We need to work on us before we even think about that, Y/N.”

“Let’s see what this year looks like for me work wise, and then we can revisit it.”

“I just want you to focus on you first. Before anything else.”

Rejection cloaked as kindness. It’s like for every step you take in the right direction, he keeps moving the goalpost. And maybe if he would stick with a stance, whatever that might be, it would be easier for you to “let it go.” 

At least, that’s what you like to believe. 

“I’m not playing any games with you, Y/N,” he sighs, mirroring your actions by also shaking his head. “You just refuse to accept the truth and come to terms with reality.” Words that sting, but the impact is slightly lessened by the visible decrease of frustration in his deep voice. Forbearance making a surprising appearance. “And the reality is that I don’t want any more kids. I'm about to be 41. My boys are grown. I’ve raised them. I’m not trying to start over again. I’m too old for that shit.”

There’s so much for you to dissect in that conglomerate of sentences. He’s not wrong about a couple things. Josiah and Jeremiah are grown. 21 going on 22, in their senior year of college, each with aspirations—and likelihood—to go pro in their respective sports. They’re fine young men, and Roman and his ex-wife, Julia, should be proud. You know they are. It’s why, despite them still having a rocky relationship since their divorce almost four years back, when it comes to their twins, they always set aside personal feelings and do what needs to be done for their kids.

Roman is a good father. A great one. And if he managed to do that as a kid having a kid, still maintaining a close bond with his sons even now, constant communication between the three of them on the daily, you have no doubt it’d be the same for your child.

And therein is where his words, fact with opinion, start to pierce. At, basically, 41, you can partially understand why he’s not exactly thrilled about the idea of having another child. But not even a month ago he was asking you how you’d feel if it was a boy instead of a girl. 

It being the baby he’s now saying he doesn’t want. 

Again, the fucking back and forth. 

Yet there’s one word in all of his soliloquy that you latched onto.

My

“Exactly. You’ve already had them, but I haven’t.” You point to yourself, feeling that damn emotion continuing to expand, making its way to the surface. Refusing to be denied any longer. “I’m 25, Roman. I'll be 26 later this year. It’s normal for me to want children at this point in my life. It’s the perfect time for me to have kids.”

Your own kids. Despite only being a few years older than his sons, you hold a close relationship with them. As close as a step-mother can get. They see you more as a peer than anything, and after making amends with the objectively strange ass way you and Roman got together, they allowed the walls to collapse and reservations to be set aside. But again, the dynamic with them is more friends than anything. They aren’t kids, they don’t feel like kids, and they’ll never be your kids.

Hence why you want your own child.

A child with Roman. 

But your emotions making an appearance through the watering of your eyes and cracking of your voice seem to do little to faze the man before you. The only indication of disturbance being whatever flashes in his warm eyes before his quiet, simple response. “Then you should have thought about that when you agreed to stay married to me.”

His words circulate throughout your head even after he leaves. Walks out of the room, most likely decompressing in the second bedroom of the hotel suite. Allowing both him and yourself time to process before the argument could reach a level that resulted in him leaving and you spiraling. 

It wouldn’t be the first time.

The last two years of your life have been such a whirlwind. Something most wouldn’t believe if you told them because the story of you and Roman sounds like something out of a Reddit thread or TikTok story time. The type where you watch with a degree of skepticism because some of the shit just sounds too outlandish. And your meeting of your now husband is nothing short of outlandish.

You met the night after WrestleMania 40. Vegas. The Chandelier.

An hour and several drinks after said meeting, you two were hitting the slot machines and wandering around the casino, talking, sharing, and connecting without a care in the world.

Two hours and even more drinks later, he had you bent over the balcony of his suite, screaming and calling on every deity known to man. 

And then some. 

12 hours later, you woke up in bed, naked, his soft snores in your ear, and a rock on your left hand.

You were married. 

Needless to say, the fallout from that was….something.

Wild as hell, too, but also….it tracked.

He was depressed from not only the loss of his title, the end of his legendary 1,316 title reign, but also everything that came with it. Old emotions and never fully healed wounds poked and probed with and by painful reminders of betrayal.

And you were three days deep into a manic episode, one that would only end a week and a half later, when the bulk of the damage was already done.

Two storms on a collision course for disaster.

Neither really willing and wanting to do anything to find a life vest, a raft, a way to evacuate. 

He was too caught up in his head to seek out the appropriate parties about an annulment, and you, again, being manic, were too deep into your episode to see how absolutely insane all of it was. You were just excited to be married, to a rich ass, fine ass, older ass man who you later learned to be Roman fucking Reigns.

Separation wasn’t anywhere on your agenda. No, according to the journaling you did and have done for a number of years now when in a manic or depressive state, you were already planning the names of your kids. From the very beginning, you knew you wanted kids with him. 

It’s that reminder, however, that triggers the thought for you. The one that remains even an hour later when he returns to the room to find you in bed, in a fetal position near the edge, blankets pulled up to your chin. 

Silent tears streaming down your face. 

It’s not until the bed groans and his coarse fingertips brush against your cheeks that you break the silence you’d rested in since his departure.

“I haven’t had an episode in almost a year,” you whisper, throat dry and stinging. A similar sensation felt near the corner of your eyes. Telltales of the tears being in a consistent, heavy flow for the past hour. You swallow, licking your suddenly chapped lips and manage to shift your eyes to look up at him. “I’m consistent with my meds. I haven’t missed a day in God knows how long.”

His lips press together, his fingers moving to stroke the top of your head. “Y/N….”

“I’ve done so well in therapy that I only have to go once a month now,” you continue, finding the strength to sit up. Roman angles his body so that he’s fully facing you as you cross your legs under the thin covers. “I—I’m better now.” 

Perhaps better than you’ve been in a very very long time. Because even before your diagnosis of Bipolar 1 at the age of eighteen, your life was always a chaotic storm. Because before it was you, it was your mom. Wild, erratic behavior that, as a kid, you didn’t understand. Your mom was different. Moody. Unique, as your dad once described her. She could be hot one minute, and cold the next. But she was your mom, and you loved her to pieces. So did your dad. Hence the way he stood by and supported her up until her last day on this earth. 

An intentional last day.

Your mom died by suicide a week after your thirteenth birthday. 

That was when your own symptoms started to manifest. You’d later find out that your doctor, and even your dad, strongly suspected bipolar. That they knew that was what you had by your 17th birthday. They just had to wait until you were 18 to formally diagnose you. 

Before and after, it’s been up and down. A few hospital stays sprinkled in over the years. Discussions, at one point, taking place between your dad and stepmom, Sherry, regarding a conservatorship. Most of your behavior, however, was simply due to being treatment resistant. You’d go to therapy for a little while and then disappear. Take your meds as prescribed for a few weeks before stopping cold turkey.

It wasn’t your diagnosis that was ruining your life. It was the person in the mirror. 

That behavior continued even after meeting and marrying Roman. The first stretch of your marriage was, in no uncertain terms, a hot fucking mess. 

Arguments. Mudslinging back and forth. Cheating. Threats. On both sides. But for every bad thing in the relationship, something good always followed. A heartfelt conversation. A kind gesture. A gentle touch. A vow and oath of love and commitment. Vehement defending of one another, whether it be him defending you to his family, especially his ex-wife. Or you defending him to your parents who thought you’d experienced some sort of psychotic break by marrying a man over ten years your senior. It didn’t matter though. For as toxic as the shit was, it was equally as healing.

Felt that way, at least.

Roman especially began to thaw out and extend a newfound sense of understanding and patience when you finally disclosed your diagnosis. He was confused, didn’t understand everything but said he would try— on one condition.

That you’d get help.

Real help.

Because he’d grown exhausted at having his team work overtime to ensure stories detailing and depicting your capricious behavior during manic episodes remain sealed. Snapped photos that disappeared. Social media posts scrubbed. Both for the sake of his image and yours. A social media influencer with over 1 million followers—5 million now—you were partially known for your quirky behavior that sometimes helped conceal the episodes. But it was only a matter of time before the comments of entertainment turned into expressions of concern.

He protected you from that. 

He’s protected you from a lot. 

Including yourself.

Ensured that he assembled the best treatment team—therapist, psychiatrist, and primary— that his pockets could afford. And you’d come to find out that his pockets ran deep. 

So much so that your turbulent early to mid twenties are so far behind in your rearview mirror that the view is almost entirely distorted. 

The first six months of your marriage was a hot dysfunctional mess. The second six months carried healing and repairing. Now in the second year, you feel as if you’re in the best place mentally that you’ve ever been in your entire life. And your marriage isn’t too far behind that. You and Roman, in your opinion, are in such a good, healthy space now.

But maybe….maybe he doesn’t feel the same. 

“I can do this, Roman.” You reach for his forearm, closing your eyes when he palms your face. His touch has always been so calming. “I can be a mother.”

You know you can. You just….you need the chance to show him. 

“Y/N…” he murmurs. You open your mouth to see him frowning, the lines in his forehead more pronounced as his thick brows furrow together. “I know how bad you want this. I do, but—”

Your chest tightens for the umpteenth time that night. “But?”

He sighs, thumb brushing over your cheek. “I don’t know if you’ve thought about how all of this is actually going to work.”

For some reason, despite the gentle undertone in his voice, his words do little to soothe you. If anything, they’re only spiking your anxiety and deepening your grief. “What do you mean?”

His loud sigh precedes what you already have a nagging suspicion isn’t going to help an already contentious situation. “Having a kid….it’s not easy.”

“I know that, Roman.” 

You place your hand over his as he continues to palm your face. “You’ve made such good progress over the past two years—”

“But?” You press once more. He’s dancing around the subject, and it’s doing nothing to help your trepidation and everything to worsen it. 

His jaw shifts. The three second pause before he answers feels like three fucking hours. “Would you still be able to take your meds while pregnant?” 

You swallow. It’s an understandable question, one that, for all the contemplating and dreaming you’ve done regarding pregnancy, you hadn’t considered. It seems like most medications carry with them the generic, default warning regarding risks for pregnant women. Granted, you’re certainly not the first woman with a mental health disorder that requires medication to keep your symptoms managed who wants to become a mother. Wants to conceive. So surely there must be some sort of remedy. 

“I—I don’t know,” you answer, honestly. “But I’m sure I can just take something different while—”

He shakes his head. “After how long it took for them to find a regimen that works for you?” Another valid question that makes you inwardly wince. “And didn’t you tell me Bipolar is genetic? Or hereditary or something?”

As you begin to pick at the sheet covering your body, his latest inquiry makes your eyes lift to his. Where….where is he going with this? 

You grow quiet. “Yes.” 

Roman licks his lips, the pauses between his words indicative of him working hard to carefully articulate his thoughts. “Your mom had it. You have it….what happens if our kid has it too?” 

And there it is.

You immediately jerk away from him, forcing his hand to drop. Once soothing, his touch suddenly feels like a thousand needles prickling into your skin.

Just like his question has pricked into your heart.

A stabbing, more of a fitting comparison, with the largest, metaphorical kitchen knife that he could locate. 

“Are you….” You shake your head, still trying to mull over what he just asked you. “Are you saying that I shouldn’t have a kid because he or she might also have Bipolar?” His eyes shut, and you yank your hand back when he attempts to reach for you. “Like it’s a fucking death sentence?” 

“Y/N—”

But you’re not trying or wanting to hear it. You kick the blankets away, also kicking him in the process, and crawl across the mattress. Your feet slam into the ground as you start to march out of the room, Roman right behind you.

“Baby, that’s not what I’m saying—”

“Well, it sure fucking sounds like it,” you snap, turning around simply to glare at him before continuing to walk with no specific direction in mind. You just need distance. Distance he refuses to grant. As soon as your feet shift from carpet to the cool wooden floor and you harshly flip the switch to light up the kitchen, you turn to him once more. “I didn’t ask to be born with this, Roman. Okay? It’s not something I fucking had control over.”

He’s standing near the entrance, allowing you to move over to the refrigerator as you open it with, again, no clear goal in mind. “I understand that, Y/N.” 

“Do you?” You challenge, slamming the door shut before once more closing that distance you want but can’t seem to enforce. “Tell me something. How would you feel if someone told you that you shouldn’t have kids because of your CML?”

It’s a low blow. You know it. Can see it in the way he blinks, lips slightly parting before his jaw tightens. 

“That’s different,” he says, lowly. 

You cross your arms. “Is it?” 

“Yes.” His gaze darkens, voice tightening. “Because CML isn’t hereditary, and if it was, I would fucking agree with them because to bring a child into this world knowing they have an increased chance of developing cancer is fucking cruel and selfish.” 

Once more, you can’t deny that he makes a valid point. But you also can’t deny the way that point fucking hurts. The pang and throb in your chest increasing by the second.

“And that’s what you think of me, isn’t it?” You whisper. “That—that I’m being selfish and that I’m—that I’m cruel—”

“No.” His heavy footsteps follow the way he pulls you into his arms, holding you close and kissing the top of your head. “That’s not what I think at all. What you have and what I have are two completely different things. I was just trying….” He trails off, and you find yourself clutching the sides of his sweats and closing your eyes. “Fuck, you know I’m not good with this shit.” 

And he isn’t, but it’s never stopped him from trying with you, and that’s more you can say for your ex’s. For most men perhaps. 

But Roman isn’t most men.

Not in the slightest.

He cups your face with both hands, words and expression the softest you’ve seen all night. “Look, it’s late. Why don’t we talk about this tomorrow mornin?” He then suggests, and it feels genuine vs an attempt to push off the inevitable. “Or when we get back home?”

Enough words have been exchanged for this evening, and you’ve done enough therapy over the years and gained enough introspection to recognize that trying to continue this conversation when your emotions are all over the place won’t do anybody any good. Roman is a calm, but he can also be the storm, too. 

You don’t wanna test it.

Nodding against his chest, he cradles the back of your head, kissing your scalp with a murmured, “I love you.”

You echo the sentiment, remaining quiet as he carries you into the bedroom and gently places you on the bed before he climbs in, pulling you close. But while he eventually drifts off to sleep, hand still on your back from when he was rubbing small, soothing circles, you lay on his chest, mind a million and one places.

Perhaps it’s your inner desire that’s fueling it, but deep down, you truly do believe that Roman wants children with you. Even if just one. The same way his eyes light up with something akin to excitement and pride when he’s talking about or interacting with the boys is the same light you see when he makes comments about your future children. 

That has to mean something.

As he more or less indicated tonight, his uncertainty regarding your child most likely inheriting Bipolar from you is what has him concerned. It’s one of perhaps other smaller, similar concerns. The barrier to happiness he can't seem to break through.

But.

But in the event that you’re wrong, that he truly doesn’t want anymore kids. That he won’t have anymore kids….what does that mean for you?

“I’m getting really worried.”

Leya’s whispered confession draws the focus of her siblings. Her eyes remain down on her lap, on the intricate design of the pillow that she has hugged against her chest. It’s a sort of therapeutic technique she learned a long time ago. When she was younger and her OCD was the worst it’s ever been. Brie would instruct her to hold a pillow close to her chest, holding and squeezing it while taking deep breaths, pretending that the combination and eventual release of her breath and the tension in her body represented the “bad thoughts” being released.

It was helpful. Very helpful in some cases.

But right now, it’s not doing much.

“He’s still not back home,” Nic adds, frown deepening. His eyes flick around the room, his jaw shifting in the same way their dad's does when he's in the midst of thought, working and mulling over scenarios in real time while still maintaining verbal communication. “And he and mom are talking less and less.”

“Not even that,” Aria speaks up, looking among her brothers and sisters. Like once before, she sits only a few inches away from Leya. A symbolic seating of sorts considering they are two of the few siblings who still live at home. All for obvious reasons, whether it be them still being minors or situations like Leya where it just makes since given her having RJ. But their residing in the home also means that they've been granted a front row seat to the tension that's marred their family home over the past few weeks. “You could….you could tell they were upset with each other before, but now…now they don’t even seem angry anymore. They just seem….sad.”

It’s a shared sentiment among the older of the Reigns kids. Even Aroha, on the verge of her twelfth birthday, has pressed her siblings for questions regarding their parents obvious conflict. Both Aria and Leya have done their best to answer without answering, but Aroha isn't the baby of the family anymore with a limited ability to understand what's going on. She knows that something is very wrong, and there's only so many different ways they can dodge the obvious before she becomes aware of how dire the situation is.

Soon enough, Aubrey, Tavita, and RJ will be the only ones spared from the glaring realization that something is definitely, deeply wrong.

The kids were hoping that the joint therapy session Aria saw on her dad’s calendar when updating his phone for him would be the thing that did it. That helped their parents get through or over this hurdle that they’ve seemingly encountered.

But the evening of said session, Solana returned home alone. Roman didn't walk into the front door until they were setting the table for dinner, and Koa and Kai were feeding the pets.

And once all the younger kids were down for bed, Leya checked the camera app on her phone to see her dad climb into one of the family's many cars, start it up, and drive off.

She must have stared at the empty spot where the car once sat for a good ten minutes. At least until the image was blurred and distorted by the tears that were burning her eyes.

The displeasure of having a front row seat from the moment this all began, when her mom marched into the home carrying with her an energy that would change everything, has meant that Leya has, in many ways, been affected the most by it all. Lost in the chaos of a storm that has no visible end in sight and leaves in its wake destruction that's gradually starting to feel irreparable with each passing day of no reconciliation in sight.

For her and all of the rest of her siblings outside of the OG's 2.0, it’s been the most fucking uncomfortable thing ever. When the rough patch hit years prior, there were at least attempts to feign and maintain the role of a happy couple. Their efforts were not without the holes that the older kids were able to spot plain as day, but the fact that their parents at least tried to pretend that everything was fine, for the sake of not wanting to worry their kids, meant something.

But this isn't then.

Their parents aren’t even trying to force or fake shit. They’re just….there.

“I briefly overheard them talking last night—”

“Really?” It’s the most hopeful Leya has felt and sounded since they all arrived at Lina’s place, needing the space to speak and talk freely without Aroha or their parents overhearing. “What—what did they say?”

Koa shakes his head. His foot taps against the floor, his fingers also moving in rhythmic patterns against his knee. “I couldn’t make out all of it, but something about waiting until after Aroha’s birthday—”

“Waiting for what?”

Kai fixes his gaze on Lina. “He just said he couldn’t make it out.”

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Guys,” Tama’s deep voice cuts through what’s sure to be a part two from the last time they gathered together, except this time, he’s not about to let things get as far as they did before. He wasn't for it then, and he damn sure isn't for it now. Things were just bad then, but they're significantly worse now, and that's saying something. “Stop it. Now.”

“What if it’s happening this time?” Leya whispers. To herself. Maybe her siblings. She’s not sure. She just knows the sensation of her eyes burning is followed up with a wet feeling against her cheeks. “What if…what if they’re getting a divorced?”

“No way.” Nic's rebuff is quick and sharp. His voice drops an octave, deepening in the way almost all of the boys' voices do when they're irritated or uncomfortable. Again, just like their dad. “No one loves each other more than mom and dad.”

“Certainly doesn’t feel that way anymore.”

“Koa!”

“What?” He snaps, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s been over two weeks, and things aren’t getting any better. They’re only getting worse.”

“I can’t believe he had a stroke and didn’t tell mommy,” Lina voices what she’s been wondering since her sister broke the shocking, alarming news. “They tell each other everything.”

“Not this,” Kai mutters.

Tama starts to check his younger brother once more but opts to try to keep the conversation focused and on topic. “He probably didn’t want to worry her—”

“He’s done a great job with that.”

“Sissy,” Leya sighs. Lina looks at her twin, the solemn expression on a face that’s hers but also not making her shoulders drop. “Sorry,” she murmurs. “I just—” She swallows, eyes growing watery. “This can’t be happening. Mommy and daddy are soulmates. They can’t—they can’t get divorced.” She looks around the room, a sense of helplessness that’s foreign and suffocating. “They still love each other. I know they do.”

Lina has always been the problem solver of her siblings. Tama as well, but the final say has always been run past her. It’s always been her gift in life. A gift she inherited from her father. Underneath an often rough, tough exterior is a problem solving brain that is typically the source of countless, possible solutions.

But she sits among her brothers and sisters, stunned and damned to the silence that represents failure.

She can’t solve this.

Doesn’t know how.

Her words, however, trigger something within Aria. She lifts her head, slowly, mouthing something to herself. It’s faint and low but heard and noticed by Leya who looks at her with glossy eyes.

“What is it?”

The question manages to temporarily relieve the rest of kids from the depressing realization that the life they’ve always known, loved, and appreciated might be on the path of change.

And not the good type.

Samaria licks her lips, looking around the room, her gaze settling on Tama and Lina.

“I think I have an idea.”

————

The sound of the front door slamming and the soles of her foot slapping against the wooden floor serve as blurred background noise. Everything outside of racing thoughts, most of which were intrusive in nature, have clouded up her headspace. Ever since her phone lit up as she was in the midst of vacuuming out the OG's 2.0 playroom and saw a text from her eldest son. Simple in nature. Heavy in meaning.

We need you.

Solana was out the door in under twenty minutes. The short distance from the Reigns estate and the home of her eldest two children has never felt so far away as she sped through traffic, uncaring of any laws being broken in the process.

All she could think about was the fact that it was rare for her son to send such a short, non-descriptive message. Even more, especially since he moved out, Tama has always preferred to talk over text. At least with her.

So Solana knew that something had to be very wrong, hence the urgency that guided her movements and relentless efforts to make it to her babies.

Except the minute she rounds the entryway and heads for the living room, calls for her son and daughter left unanswered, worry is swapped for something else.

Shock.

Emerging from the kitchen, most likely through the backdoor entrance off said kitchen, Solana stands across from the man she's barely spoken more than ten words to over the past several days.

Roman.

His expression, she's certain, mirrors hers. He eyes her skeptically before his mouth settles into a line and her own mouth parts once and then twice before she manages to speak.

"What—what are you doing here?"

Though the minute it comes out, she immediately both regrets and answers her own question. If Tama reached out to her because something is wrong, of course he'd reach out to his dad as well.

Roman must realize this, too, as his answer never comes, or rather it's intercepted by the sound of footsteps as she turns around to see several of her oldest children. Tama is included in said group, but the expression on his face, on all of their faces, doesn't indicate a level or urgency.

It indicates….anxiety.

Like they're nervous about something.

Roman finally breaks his silence, voicing what Solana is thinking. "What's going on?"

Lina steps forward, her siblings eyes fixed onto her as she motions with her arm to the living room. "Please. Sit." She leans to the side just enough to ensure locking eyes with her father. "Daddy, you too."

And just like that, the concern about what had happened shifts to what's about to happen. Solana, however, would like to believe that her kids wouldn't have called both herself and Roman over here for nothing. So instead of pushing back the way she wants to, she silently walks into the living room, placing her purse on the space beside her.

Roman follows suit, sitting across the way, of course.

Though she understands it and prefers it, she also hates it. As upset and angry and hurt and everything else as she is towards and with her husband, it hasn't dulled the wound in her chest that's been birthed and only grown day after day since this all went down.

"Kids." Solana turns to see Roman is focused on their children who've also joined them in the living room, lined up almost in front of the television. Lina. Leya. Tama. Aria. Nic. "I'm not gon' ask again."

As much as Solana dislikes the almost irritated tone he's taken with them, the question is valid. Though she has a feeling she's not going to like the answer any more than he will.

Tama takes a deep breath and stuffs his hands in the pockets of his dark jeans. "Look, we know….we know you guys aren't in a good place right now."

Solana shuts her eyes. Her suspicions have now turned into confirmations.

"Tam—"

"And we know that you've always told us to stay out of it," Lina cuts in, the only one in the group other than Tama, that would have the balls to interrupt Roman like that. "That your marriage is none of our business and between the two of you."

Solana licks her lips, gradually willing her eyes open. "Lin—"

"But whatever is happening between you guys right now is affecting all of us," Nic's additive does nothing more than increase that weight on Solana's chest. She's not stupid. As much as she would like to believe she and Roman have done their best to not allow their situation to impact the kids, that's just not a feasible nor realistic expectation. With the exception of Aubrey and Tavita, Solana knows her children well enough to know they inherited their father's discernment.

They can see what doesn't need to be stated.

Aria takes another deep breath as she takes over for her brother." We know something is wrong, and we love you both too much to sit back and do nothing."

Solana doesn't need to be looking at her husband to see the way his jaw shifts and moves as he works to find the right, best words. “Samaria—”

“Please,” Leya cuts in, stepping forward, lips pressed together as her parents focus on her. “For…for us.”

It’s a bit of a cruel string to pull. A manipulation tactic if not for who it was to evoke it.

The only thing that neither Solana nor Roman can ever say no to.

When it comes to their kids, it’s always a yes.

It’s why, despite them sitting on opposite sofas—Solana on the one facing the TV and Roman on the one adjacent to the TV—they're on the same page for a first time in a long time.

Aria is the one to walk over to them, breaking from her brothers and sisters. “We know that we’re obviously biased since we’re your kids. Not to mention it’s not really our place, but we thought....” She stops, looking over at someone else to take over as she grabs the remote, setting up the television, the emotion in her voice indicative of her struggle. “We thought maybe if you hear it from someone other than us, it’ll help you remember.”

Solana shifts on the sofa, hating the way she struggles to maintain her volume. Indication and reminders of her immense difficulty over the past two weeks in trying to keep it all together. “Remember what?”

Lina is the one to handle the question, the final one, as the kids start to spill out the room.

“That you’re RoSo.”

The term makes both husband and wife still. But whatever is felt from hearing something that carries so much history and weight is redirected when music starts to play. A song she recognizes almost instantly.

Aren't you somethin' to admire?

'Cause your shine is somethin' like a mirror

And I can't help but notice

You reflect in this heart of mine

The dark screen lights up, cursive black font set against a white backdrop.

RoSo

Solana’s hand drops to her stomach at the transition to Dwayne and Matteo, clearly at the Warehouse, in the midst of a workout. The music remains playing in the background at a lower volume to accommodate the sounds of the interviewees.

“Uncle Dwayne. Uncle Teo.” Tama’s voice is loud and clear, confirming he’s the one filming the two men who stand with light sheen of sweat splayed across their forehead, hands on their waist. “What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you think of RoSo?”

Dwayne chuckles, looking at Matteo. “You wanna go first, Fabio?”

Matteo casts a wry smile and glances at the camera. “That’s easy.” He shrugs. “Love.”

Roman’s jaw clenches.

“Fucker stole my answer,” Dwayne curses, also looking at the camera. “But like he said, love. Unlike anything I’ve ever seen, either.”

The clips switches as a smiling Afia and Bayley stand next to each other. Like the men, dressed in workout/training attire and clearly at the Warehouse but caught right before the beginning of their sparring session.

“Tias.” It’s Lina’s voice this time as she presents the same question as her brother. “What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you think of RoSo?”

Bayley scoffs. “Douche, but that only applies to the first half.”

Afia lightly slaps Bayley on the arm, shaking her head before taking a soft breath. Her pretty eyes flick upward, narrowing slightly in the way she does when in deep thought. “Soulmates.”

“As much as I hate to say anything remotely good about your irritating ass dad, she’s right.” Bayley feigns an over-dramatic sigh before her mouth settles into a small, genuine smile. “Soulmates for sure.”

'Cause I don't wanna lose you now

I'm lookin' right at the other half of me

The vacancy that sat in my heart

Is a space that now you hold

Another transition to another clip that reveals Cameron, Melina, and Mickie, also at the Warehouse, which instantly has Solana convinced that the kids must have asked everyone to meet them there.

That faction of Solana’s friend group only attends the Warehouse for fight nights and major matches, primarily when Roman is fighting, and even then, they’re more there for her than for the actual fights.

And just like the last two times, the same question is presented, but the timbre of Nic’s deep voice is heard instead of Lina’s much lighter, softer one. Mickie is the first to answer in the way that only Mickie would.

“Hot.”

Nic’s exasperated sigh makes Solana smile. “Aunt Mickie.”

Cameron, however, quickly jumps in with her own answer accompanied by a soft smile. “Inspiring.”

Melina casts her a sideways glance, playfully nudging her. “You make them sound like motivational speakers.”

She shrugs, pushing her braids back over her shoulder. “I mean, Solana kind of is.”

It’s hard for Solana to pinpoint exactly what part of what she’s watching affects and impacts her the most. The words. The participants. The effort her children have clearly put in to make all this happen, and in such a short period of time, it seems. Each compliment, however, seems to do something to her. Lessens just a little bit the weight she’s carried with her nonstop the past two weeks.

But she's tuned back in, resisting the desire to look over at Roman who’s also watched quietly thus far, as Mickie makes a ‘pfft’ sound. “Roman isn’t.” She rolls her eyes, lifting her hand to examine her nails. “He’s the meanest person I know.”

“Mickey,” Melina mutters, gesturing to the camera. “That’s his dad.”

“Oh my God, it’s not a secret. Literally everyone knows Roman is mean.” She throws her hands up, looking away, gasping. “Here. You.”

Confusion dwells as the footage becomes shaky before the camera refocuses on an unfamiliar face, but he wears a solid black shirt with a familiar, red insignia on the right side, just above his pectoral muscles.

Bloodline.

However, Solana’s guess would be he’s not of the…..field type. Perhaps something related to tech. Slim build, greasy hair, some strings clinging to his forehead, and the way he pushes his thick rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose as well as the overall startled expression all but confirm it.

There are numerous positions available throughout the Bloodline, and despite popular misconception, not all of them require the ability to maim and kill. There are many other roles that need fulfilling, some of which include sitting behind a desk.

This man is clearly a desk type.

“What’s your name?” Mickie asks but immediately waves away as if physically pushing her initial query to the side in place of what’s most relevant. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Isn’t Roman Reigns an asshole?”

“Mickie!”

Another smile appears on Solana’s face as the nervous expression on the man’s swiftly morphs into something of horror. His widened eyes and dilated pupils magnified 10x over.

“The—the Tribal Chief?” His eyes switch to the camera, slightly above the frame, which Solana would guess is him realizing just who is holding said camera. He gulps. “No. N—no. The—the Tribal Chief is a great man—”

“Okay, that’s enough.” A quiet laugh actually spills over when Mickie literally shoves the man away, prompting outcry from Cameron and Melina. “See, even strangers are afraid of him. Why?” She mouths she word, sound absent but lips easily readable. “Asshole.”

“Ignore her.” Solana watches Melina shake her head when Nic refocuses the camera on her, and even before she can fix her mouth to say it, Solana just knows. Can tell by the gleam in her eyes what the answer is.

“Amor.”

Love.

Additional clips interviewing closest family and friends continue to flash across the screen, but Solana feels frozen in place and time from that word. A word that so deeply encompasses so much of her life. Of her relationship.

Carved into her, metaphorically and physically. The latter of the two further emphasized when she realizes her hand is placed against her chest, fingers covering the black and red ink near her clavicle.

Her tattoo.

The one she got for Roman.

For them.

She swallows, emotion continuing to build as the lyrics burn into her soul.

Show me how to fight for now

And I'll tell you, baby, it was easy

Comin' back here to you once I figured it out

You were right here all along.

Except the emotion only extrapolates when unexpected participants fill up the flat screen TV.

Aubrey, Tavita, and RJ are sitting at the table she recognizes from being the one in their shared playroom. Naturally, all three are wiggly, but only Aubrey is smiling happily. RJ and Tavita instead carry pouts and scowls that remind her so much of….of Roman.

Roman

“Okay, guys—”

Koa’s voice is cut off by a whining, pouting Aubrey as she reaches up with her arms. Tavita and RJ present a question Solana can’t entirely make out. “Can you hold me?”

A heavy sigh makes her chuckle as she wipes at her eyes. Koa offers, in the nicest voice he can, she’s certain, a delayed acceptance. “After, Aubrey.”

Kai’s irritated voice sounds from elsewhere, most likely behind Koa, with his arms crossed and frustration written all over his face. Neither of her twin boys have ever been very good with….little kids. “Why does she always want to be held?”

“I don’t think she knows how to use her legs.”

“Leave her alone. She’s only three.” Aria snaps, and it causes the tears to spill over at a faster, heavier rate. All the kids. All of her kids partook in this, the older ones handling the filming with her younger kids partaking in the answering portion. Hence why she would guess this interviewing of the OG’s 2.0 would be the last set. “And would you two shut up? I don’t want to have to edit this out.”

“Guys.” Kai cuts in, forever the one to keep everyone focused. “Do you know what RoSo is?”

It’s a shared answer with a loud “yeah!” coming from all three.

“Who is RoSo?”

Again, another joint answer, naturally, RJ’s answer differing from that of his technical aunt and uncle.

“Mommy and daddy!”

“Grandpa and abuela!”

Solana sniffles, smiling at the kids’ enthusiastic replies, Aubrey clapping happily. And for the first time since the start of the video, Solana’s eyes drift over to the other side of the room where Roman sits on the edge of the sofa. Leaned over, his hands fisted together over his mouth, brows furrowed and and focused on the screen with the same level of intensity and intrigue that’s sat with her from the moment the video started.

It makes her heart swell.

“That’s right.” Aria giggles and gasps dramatically. “And how do you feel about RoSo?” A beat. “Do you guys love RoSo?”

That final question, however is what really evokes the biggest smile, laughs, and glee from the children with a loud, unanimous “yes!”

The timing is synced perfectly, it seems, as the final refrain begins and all of the clips fill the screen, one by one, sounds muted to allow the music to play louder and without interruption. But it’s when the post-chorus begins that Solana nearly loses it.

“Oh my God.”

Clips of herself and Roman.

From their wedding in Mexico shortly before the girls were born. Solana smiling and holding onto his arm.

Several from their vow renewal ceremonies over the year.

Her dancing playfully as he spins her around and tugs her against him, craning his head down to kiss her shoulder, her own over his forearm. Smiling.

Them in the pool, him holding her as she smiles down and kisses him. Right before he squeezes her ass under the water, prompting her to gasp and swat at his shoulder.

Of her in the kitchen cooking and him sneaking up to hug her from behind. Her hand over her chest, smile on her face and head tilted back to cradle the back of his head as he kisses her.

Roman sitting at the table talking to the kids, giving them one of his many lectures, hand gestures and all. Solana behind him, nodding and playfully mimicking his non-verbals. The amused smile on Leya’s face giving her away as Roman turns to look at her. Her expression immediately dropping, eyes widening with faux innocence. Lighthearted mockery veiled by her quickly kissing his temple and darting away.

Them on the beach, her giggling and attempting to run only for his long legs to easily allow him to catch her. Though the original audio is muted to allow for Timberlake's volalization, Solana can hear her laughter through the screen as he picks her up and spins her back around.

Hospital footage from several of the kids’ births. Roman sitting at the edge of the hospital bed, holding their baby, her peering over his shoulder.

Him holding her against him as she leaned her forehead into his chest, squeezing his arms while he swayed gently with her to ease the pain and discomfort from her contractions.

Her standing between his open legs, comb in hand as she parted his hair while saying something to the kids only to jump when his hands lifted to her waist, clearly squeezing playfully. The smile on her face as she looked down and captured a kiss before gently tugging at his beard before resuming.

Roman's head back, lips slightly parted as she was curled into him, hand on his chest. On the family's private jet, clearly on the way home from one of their vacations. Both of their eyes shut as they stole a rare moment of the peace and quiet needed for a quick nap.

So many clips.

So many stolen moments, some of which, she hadn't even realized her kids captured on video.

So many memories.

By the time, it’s finished, Solana can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t anything. She’s overwhelmed and filled with an abundance of unnamed entities that have her heart heavy, her stomach tight, and her hand over her chest. It’s a trick of the mind, she’s certain, but she can almost feel the thud of her heart against her shaky palm. Her eyes burn and jaw trembles. It’s only as the sight ahead of her becomes blurry and the weight travels down to her legs that she has to move.

Has to find escape, her legs carrying her out of the living room and to the back of the townhouse, through the kitchen and out the back sliding door.

Her vision remains disrupted, big gasps of breath taken to inhale as much of the fresh air as she can handle, but it’s a shaky process. Her inability to regulate her breathing fueled by the sob making its way up the back of her throat. She continues to walk, feet carrying her into the patch of grass the outlines the patio and recently uncovered pool.

The same grass that cushions her knees when she falls to the ground, one hand over stomach, the other covering her mouth as the sob finally breaks through the surface. She’s doubled over, emotions overflowing and manifesting in the way she wails loudly. Intermittent gasps and sharp intakes of breaths as crying battles with the crippling somatic sensations that feel an awful like the early stages of a panic attack.

It most likely is one, too.

It’d be the third one she’s had over the past week.

But new sensations, different yet familiar, gradually seep in and manage to de-escalate. A gentle touch, fingers grazing against her arms. A gentle tug that has her back against against something firm but soothing as the hands shift to where solid, strong arms circle her waist. Solana’s hands naturally fall on Roman’s forearms that secure and lock her to him.

It makes her stomach twist tighter and tears fall harder.

Neither stop her, however, from uttering the first real, authentic words to him since their disastrous therapy session. Any interactions and conversations since then have been forced, fake, and inauthentic.

There’s nothing inauthentic about the heartbroken words that she manages to force out in between gut wrenching crying. “I’m sor—I’m sor—”

“Sol—”

“We’ve—we’ve built a life t—together.” It’s a life she never envisioned for herself. Before Roman, Solana didn’t see herself making it to thirty. But because of him, she’d had her first set of kids by thirty. “I can’t lose—that. I can’t lose you.”

Despite the tightness in her chest and the way her eyes burn from how much she’s cried over the past few two weeks, she manages to channel enough strength to turn to look at him.

It’s like looking at herself. A different side of herself. Harder, stronger, firmer. A pillar. The other and best parts of her in so many ways.

His glossed eyes burn into her, hand lifting to palm her cheek. “Solana—”

“You’re my best friend.” She sniffles, shaking her head as his thumb brushes away her tears. “I don’t know how to do life without you, Roman, and the fact that one day, a day that's sooner rather than farther, is a reality that I will have to face terrifies me. I don’t—" Another deep, sharp intake of breath that makes her chest tighten and shoulders slump once more. "I should have told you about the pregnancy."

"Sol—"

"I hated—hated lying to you. I—I shouldn't have, but I—I thought if I could—if I could spare you from feeling that pain, then—then I was going to do that for you. All you've ever done is protect me, and I—I wanted to be the one to protect you for once. "But in the grand scheme of things, it doesn't really matter anymore. It was selfish of her to keep such a thing from Roman. Yes, just as she stated, she wanted nothing more than to protect her husband the way he'd always protected her. Intentions, however, matter not in the face of the outcome and reality. She was wrong, and there's no way around that. Plain and simple.

She bites down on her bottom lip, realizing that this is the moment to lay it all out. Good, bad, whatever it may be, Roman is more than deserving of the truth. He always was.

"For almost twenty years, there wasn't a single day where I wasn't haunted by the —the memories of my rape or—or my mother's murder, and sometimes—sometime both." Solana manages a shaky breath, powering through it all. "I couldn't help it. Couldn't control it. But that…that I could. I—I know you don't believe me, but I hadn't thought about it in years, Roman." She lifts her eyes to his once more, having to push back the next wave of tears just beyond the horizon. "When—when we got pregnant with Nicky, when we had him, I pushed it so far to the back of my mind that it wasn't until we were arguing—"

And just like in the days following both the discovery and the loss, an immense weight on her chest and in her heart. That weighs her down and makes her desperate to reach for something. For someone. Because there wasn't a day that passed that Solana didn't want to tell Roman, didn't want to share the truth as to why they couldn't be intimate. What'd happened. What they'd lost.

But she didn't. And that is a mistake she will have to carry with her for the rest of her life. A mistake that she'll regret for the rest of her life.

Looking at him once more, seeing the emotion dancing in his eyes, a rare display and reflection of vulnerability that's never felt stronger, Solana is overcome once more.

“I love you.”

A combination and accumulation of everything that’s transpired over the past two weeks. Emotions that have deprived her of peace, stripped her of calm and layered her with the weight of loss.

Solana’s children have always been her greatest source of joy, but the fact of the matter is that she has them because of him. Because of Roman.

And as frustrated and upset as she’s been with him, that she was, the bulk of her emotions hasn’t been anger.

It’s been hurt.

A type of pain that she hasn’t experienced in years. Old wounds gradually and torturously ripped open that, prior to this, she was sure she’d healed from. A level of unhealthy codependency.

She would never ever do anything to hurt herself. Would never do that to her kids, nor does she have any desire to not be alive.

But….

There’a sick, twisted feeling that’s sat with her since that session. Since Roman more or less, and maybe she did, too, confirm that their marriage is over. A feeling she hasn't experienced since before he entered her life. Before he turned her existence into living. And just the thought of that living not including him in any sort of capacity….it's something she can't bear.

She can’t. It's why her initial approach to the deeper reason as to why she reacted so strongly to learning of his stroke was traded in for another heavy truth that needed to be addressed. Upsetting to discuss, of course, but not nearly debilitating as that truth.

"I know…" She closes her eyes, hand over his that's still on and hasn't left her face. Same with his intense stare and the presence of his body before her as they remain on the ground, unmoving and frozen in space and time. "I know you're upset with me, and—and that you don't want to see me, s—"

"Solana."

It's not like it's the first attempt he's made to speak in the midst of her verbal catharsis, but something about the pleading undertone of his deep voice penetrates through her dense wall of contrition, regret, and remorse. She blinks away the next set of tears, incapable of ignoring the wave of relief that stems from him looking at her, touching her even, in a way he hasn't in weeks. His regard and disposition towards her, as well as hers towards him, have been nothing short of frigid. But the warmth felt from his touch, seen in his face, and heard in his voice almost instantly melts away the icebergs that formed perimeters around her heart.

And perhaps maybe his.

One hand dips to her waist as Solana realizes at some point in the midst of her sentiment fueled soliloquy, he'd angled them so that her body was facing his. The press of his fingers into her skin as he gently tugged her close made something thud in her chest. A precursor for what would follow following his next statement.

His eyes narrow, gleaming with intensity and adoration she hadn't realized she'd been craving and yearning for so deeply. The absence of his affection has been a sort of torture she hadn't realized she was gradually succumbing to in the midst of their impasse. "All I see is you." Her lips part as a shaky exhale is lost in the midst of her anguish and relief at words that carry more weight than anyone outside of herself and the man in front of her could ever know or understand. "You said you can't lose me, right?" The faintest, smallest hint of a smile weighed down by reciprocated sentiment is preceded by the way he shakes his head in a small, subtle motion. "Well, that makes two of us, cause I can’t be without you, either.”

The combination of the words, the emotions, and the echoing of her own vulnerable confession, is what forces the next wave to the surface. And Solana will never deny that there's a continued theme of selfishness as she throws her body against his, allowing him to hold and cradle the back of her head as she sobs into his chest. Recognizes that there's certainly some level of relief he also feels at this devastating rough patch of theirs finding some sort of path to resolution in comparison to the alternative that was dangerously close to being the final decision. But it, if she had to guess, doesn't outweigh what weight is pulled from off her as he once again reiterates his love for her.

"Tell—tell me—" she hiccups, grasping at his shirt once more. "Tell me what to do to fix this. I'll do—I'll do anything, Roman. Just….just tell me what you need me to do." And she means it. Whatever frustration and anger still lingers towards his concealment of the stroke is heavily outweighed by her desire to heal. To fix.

Whatever it takes.

"We need to get away," he finally answers and pulls back to look down at her. She continues to hold onto his shirt, as if release means releasing him as well. Never. Roman lifts his hand to stroke the top of her head. "This weekend. Leya and Rashad can watch Aubrey and Tavita." Solana nods, her willingness to blindly accept not even allowing her to consider who would watch their youngest set of kids. But of course, Roman is already several steps ahead. He's always been the one to plan and arrange so she doesn't have to. Always done everything he can to make her life as easy as possible.

But ease doesn't exist in her world without him.

She can't imagine a world without him.

"And we'll talk," he continues. Her eyes flutter shut once more when he lies his forehead against hers, minty breath fanning her face. "Okay?"

In perhaps most settings, the promise to "talk" would ignite a massive wave of anxiety. But for Solana, it's exactly what she needs to hear. Exactly what they need to do. Should have done a long time ago. Such a simple but powerful necessity to maintain and sustain a marriage. A marriage she's not willing to give up on. She won't.

She can't.

Whatever it takes.

Nodding in acknowledgement, she can't stop herself from moving her arms around him, holding him as another round of tears accompany her heartfelt, "I love you."

That she swore up and down during one of their many…many heated arguments over the phone—the ones that she ensured took place on the privacy of her backyard as she paced the length of the pool deck—that it'd be a cold day in hell before she attended one of his shows.

Mania be damned.

And she didn't necessarily lie.

She's not there for him.

She's there for him.

Carmelo.

Her boyfriend.

Well…

And just like that, a fresh wave of intense anger is revived when she recalls what invited the emotion that's been dominant and consistent when it comes to that irritating ass man.

He's fucking ridiculous.

But she should have known. She should have known that there was no way in hell for last night to end the way that it did and he not have something up his sleeve. He was far too calm upon her departure for him to not be scheming and planning. He probably already had Paul on the fucking phone before she even hit the elevator.

April 18th, 2026 — WrestleMania 42 - Night One

The feel of his big, calloused hand palming and squeezing her ass preceded the loud echo of that same hand coming down on her ass, the slap echoing throughout the suite but ultimately lost among the pre-existing, louder dominant noises.

The headboard brutally beating into the pillows they'd learned a long time ago absorbed the only set of noises that could be controlled and maintained. Everything else was always something beyond the realm of control, including the way she cried out and cursed at the stinging aftermath of his slap.

Karesse detested the way that his deep voice managed to overpower everything else, that she could hear that dark chuckle even in the midst of his heavy balls slapping repeatedly against her pussy that both throbbed and squeezed around his thick ass dick. In all the years that'd passed, every time still felt like the first time. That unforgiving stretch and impossible depth that always made her initially dub over, hand—when not restricted—reaching for her stomach.

It was unreal how deep he always felt.

How deep he was.

"I don't know why you're trying to be so quiet." She kept her eyes and mouth shut, more than certain that if she bit down on her lip any harder, she'd draw blood. The same way he drew back almost entirely before ramming back into her. Karesse's nails scraped against the sheets, searching for a sort of anchor that was ruined at least three positions ago. Damp, soaked, somewhere in between and beyond, whatever the case, they were no use.

"Acting like you ain't in tears over how good this dick feels," he continued, once more palming the globe of her ass that bounced off his dick with fervent passion and desire. Naturally, she needn't put in much effort, but as always, it was a high she couldn't not chase. "How it always feels." Couldn't not heed to the aching in her lower back that he kept pushing down on as he rammed his cock into her. Couldn't not eagerly throw her ass back to meet him thrust for thrust. "How your Tribal Chief always makes you feel."

It was a road that offered one end and one end only.

"S—shut up," she managed through heavy pants, the weight of her breasts slapping against her chest just another source of deafening sounds that couldn't be avoided.

One of many things that could never be avoided with the man behind her.

But Karesse was suddenly pushed down on the mattress, the absence of Roman's cock in her weeping, needy, pulsing pussy a deprivation that had her instantly groaning through closed lips. Frustration briefly spiked to an all time high when he flipped her over on the mattress like she weighed nothing, and despite that being far from the case, especially since the birth of their daughter, it tracked.

She licked her lips and soaked in the sight of his big, hulking body over hers, the groaning of the mattress underneath the weight of his knee lost in the way her eyes could only focus on his dick. Thick, erect, hung between his equally thick tree trunk legs, the tip flushed and glistening with their conjoined juices.

Roman smirked down at her before reaching for her ankles and pushing back her legs before his gaze refocused to her spread legs and throbbing cunt. His eyes darkened.

"That's a pretty ass pussy right there." Karesse watched with a coiling stomach as he brought his thumb to his mouth, pink tongue swiping over the pad before it disappeared between her legs. Her head lolled back at the slightest but stirring press of it against her swollen clit. "All puffy and creaming from taking daddy's big dick."

Karesse started to trail her hand down her slick body to tend to her throbbing, sensitive pearl only to feel a shift.

Roman's hands locked behind the back of her thigh, his baritone voice dropping an octave as she heard the bed creak once more and felt his minty breath between her legs. "And she taste just as good as she looks."

Her clit was exchanged for the back of Roman's head. Her fingers nestled and tangled into his silky, dark curls as he the sound of him slurping on her pussy for what had to have been the third time tonight had her writhing and moaning on the bed.

"Stop all that damn moving," he groaned, ceasing only momentarily to issue his one and only warning. Countless, prior experiences taught her well that he was a one and done. After that, he'd just use his strength to lock her down against that mattress while he ate her out until she was practically sobbing and begging him to stop. That she couldn't take it anymore.

It never made a difference.

From the moment their sexual relationship reached the level to where he didn't have to factor in her inexperience, that was all she wrote.

He always put her through the mattress and flipped, bended, contorted her in ways she didn't even realize were ways.

But it was when he finally decided that she'd had enough, Karesse on the brink of pulling her hair out by the roots, that the atmosphere shifted when they changed positions once more. For the final time. And she knew this well and with all the confidence when he kissed his way up her body until he reached her mouth. His hands hooking behind her thighs that autonomously locked around his waist the same way her wrists crossed behind his neck as her fingers tangled in his hair while they continued to make out. His pace shifted to accompany this more intimate positioning of their connected bodies.

Karesse panted and moaned into his mouth as he transitioned from that filthy mouth of his that would make Only Fans highest paid worker blush and stammer to the proclamations that always caused warmth to bloom in her chest.

In her heart.

"….always you…."

"….fucking hate being away from you…."

"…..I love you…."

It was the last one—often repeated more than once—that she always reciprocated. She didn't know how not to. Not in these singular moments where everything outside of what she felt in the deepest part of her soul didn't exist. Where, even if a facade, everything seemed and felt right.

She drowned in it willingly.

But it was a temporary sort of quicksand, as when they both reached their fill, and he peeled himself off and away from her, Karesse remained in bed as the reality that existed outside of the room gradually returned to the front and center.

Where it should have never left.

"We're going on the road with him."

Subtle yellow lighting reflected off the defined line in the middle of his back, shadows in between the bulging muscles that were flexed from the mid-movement of him pulling his shirt back on. She tried to distract herself by counting the amount of bruises—varying shapes, sizes, and hues—along with tiny scrapes and cuts. Some from the fight.

Some from her nails clawing down that same back not even ten minutes ago as he thrust desperately and sloppily inside of her before exploding, ropes of warm, white, hot cum still seeping from her swollen, puffy vagina.

But the moment he turned around, her distraction was deprived and irritation revived. The scowl on his face already letting her know exactly where this was about to go.

Where it always went.

"What?"

Karesse rolled her eyes and leaned back against the headboard. Her hands against her chest keeping the thin fitted sheet covering the bulk of her body that was still slick with sweat that had her edges and kitchen all but completely reverted back to its kinky kurly state.

"You heard me," she repeated. "I said we're going on the road with him."

Roman kept his gaze steady on her, finally pulling his shirt over his head before following up with a newfound but understand irritable tone. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"Roman," she sighed. "You know exactly what it means." Because it's exactly what she'd done with him at some point. "Melo wants us to join him for a little bit so we could spend time together, and I said yes."

Forever watchful and observant, Karesse kept her focus on him while her free hand hidden under the soft sheets tapped at the mattress that still felt damp under her fingertips either from the mess they'd made of the perfectly clean, pristine sheets prior to her arrival to his room.

It's what allowed her to see that familiar flash gleam in his eyes. "And why the fuck would you say that?"

She closed her eyes. "Roman—"

"You're not going."

Karesse's eyes snapped open just as quickly as they clamped shut. Her bottom lip dipped open just enough for a tiny breath to escape. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." He walked across the room, snatching his pants off the velvet, cream colored chaise lounge they started on as he reclined back and tugged her on top of him, impaling her on his dick that she role with a disgusting amount of fervor and desire before they transitioned to the bed. He snatched his pants and turned around, face morphed into that irksome ass scowl that made her want to punch him right in his beautiful ass face. "You're not taking my daughter away."

It wasn't that Karesse was expecting Roman to leap for joy at this news. No, she knew the moment she finally gave Melo an answer as they sat on the sofa together in their shared suite following her getting Bri down for bed that it would be a whole fucking thing. She just wasn't expecting to already be over all of it before the fireworks could even fully begin.

"Stop being dramatic. You'll still see her." She contemplated sharing that she'd already asked for Melo to send her over the set of dates he knew and had so she could start figuring out flights back home to accommodate that. Because that's all she's ever done it, seems. Accommodate him.

"When?" He pressed, stepping into and sliding up his joggers. "When you feel like it?"

"And how is that any different from how things are now?"

Her sharp rebuttal was met with silence followed by his eyes diverting to the adjacent wall. "That's fucking bullshit, and you know it." She leaned back in bed, arms pressed to her side to keep the sheet intact, knowing full and well what exposure of her nude body would do to him. To the both of them. He flicked his gaze back to her. "I'm with her almost every day of the week." Another gleam she opted to ignore as well as the dip in his volume. "I'm with you."

Karesse couldn't necessarily deny him that. From day one of Briella Mae's arrival into the world, Roman has always done any and everything he could and can for their daughter. That included heading right over to her/their house right after dropping off his youngest two children with her at school. He essentially took care of Brie while Karesse worked, because while many hailed working from home being the easiest thing ever, holding a supervisor level position in a mostly male dominated industry meant that she had to ensure to cross every 'T' and dot every 'I.'

Especially as a black woman.

Roman kept their baby girl busy while she worked her nine to five that was often filled with small to large gaps in the day that allowed her to spend time with them, and when Brie was down for naps, him.

Sometimes, it all felt so….domestic.

And for a second, it worked. That warmth in her chest that bloomed and was borderline overwhelming every time he looked at her like that, stroked her soft skin as they laid in bed together, limbs as entangled as their souls. Made her feel what no one else ever had.

But that was then, and this is now.

Nothing has ever felt or been more different. A realization that made her counter that much easy to issue.

"Will you be this summer?" She pressed. "Will you be with her or me most of the week when your kids with her are home for the break?"

"Karesse—"

"When you wine and dine them all over the world cosplaying as this perfect husband and dad while sneaking FaceTime calls with me and Bri while wifey is being pampered at the spa and the kids are laughing and having the time of their life in the background?"

Karesse hated everything about this conversation, but nothing filled her with more rage and hostility than discussing that bitch. Hate has always felt like such a strong word to use towards another human being. At least, that's how she's always felt. And perhaps it was the—now that she's older and can look back—ridiculous, childish back and forth between the two of them, that set them down the path they ended up on.

Nasty texts that once resulted in Karesse throwing her phone across the room when she received a 30 second clip of the two of them having sex.

Roman and his wife.

It eventually followed up with Karesse hitting an Uno Reverse card as she pulled up her iCloud and sent over an almost five minute, first person POV video of Roman eating her out.

But again, all of that would prove nothing more than child's play compared to the ultimate, culminating event that, even a little over a year over, Karesse still can't bring herself to fully think about, let alone discuss.

All she knows is that she hates that bitch with every fiber of her being, Briella Mae will never be around her alone, and that her hatred has no expiration date.

Period.

Rendered silent once more by a truth he couldn't deny because she, because they, lived it, have lived it several times over, Roman resorted to what he always did when backed into a corner.

He projected.

"Isn't that what you'll be doing if you go gallivanting around the country with him like some fucking groupie?" He sneered. "Dragging my daughter—"

"Oh, you're so full of shit." Any little amount of effort and consideration she'd set aside for the conversation is DOA and was DOA the moment he started off by telling he what she wasn't going to do with her child. She tried. Truly. But Roman could be so fucking impossible at times.

He could also be hypocritical, and in that moment, he was both.

His presence was suddenly the cause of her discomfort and prompted her to kick the blankets off as she also started to journey across the suite to redress.

"Karesse—"

"This conversation is over with."

As she slid her dress over her body, completely disregarding her soaked panties she planned to just toss in the trash, she could feel his heavy footsteps behind her.

"The fuck it is," he huffed.

She spun around on her heel, looking up and glaring while attempting to adjust the top of the sleeveless dress that kept rolling down over her boobs. "I have nothing to say to you right now, Roman."

Nothing nice, anyway. Sliding on her heels, it was only when she was upright that she felt his hand on her arm, her body yanked into something hard and warm and far too inviting for everything that just occurred over the past five minutes.

"Rom—"

"Karesse."

She kept her eyes closed, refusing to meet the gaze she already knew would have her melting in his embrace instead of how tempted to shove on his chest with little to not results. His hold, in many ways, was relentless.

"Hear me out." Resilience somehow remain undeterred as she kept her eyes shut despite the feel of his hand on the small of her back, the other gliding through her hair that hung, partially straight, partially curled over her shoulders and fanned her back. "She starts preschool in the fall."

"I know that."

"Then we need to be getting her ready for that," he countered, voice significantly softer, in that way it always relegated to when he realized she was shutting down on him. When he realized that, once more, he allowed his emotions to get the best of him and had subsequently put his foot in his mouth. "She doesn't need to be dragged from city to city every week—"

"But it was okay when we did it with you?" Her counter was accompanied by the way she forced her eyes to open just in time as his jaw ticked, the smart remark she knew he wanted to say shoved aside for something less antagonizing but just as irritating.

"That was different," he said, voice even. "There was a reason."

"And there's a reason now, Roman. The only difference is that you're not that reason anymore, and that's something you can't seem to accept."

Because when the roles were reversed, their daughter almost thirteen months, Karesse had done the exact same thing she was proposing. Joined Roman on the road for a couple months. Went with him from city to city with their young daughter in tow, and while perhaps the disastrous fallout from that whole debacle fueled part of his vehement objection to her plan, it wasn't enough to get her to change her mind.

The minute Karesse accepted her boyfriend's offer, the deal was done.

She didn't tell Roman to ask for his permission. She told him so he'd know in the next couple of weeks, she and baby girl would no longer be an easy 15 minute drive from his big, fancy mansion in the gated community where police roamed on the regular and kids could play freely and safely in the street without a care in the world.

That reminder, however, along with the way his hand started to inch its way down her body allowed Karesse to remember where she was and who stood before her.

With what was objectively unnecessary force, she jerked out of his embrace and forced herself to ignore the brief pang of hurt that flashed across his face.

If she had a dime for every time the role was reversed.

"I have to go," she said, refusing to entertain what should have never been revisited in the first place. She should have never replied to his text. "Besides, your family is waiting for you."

Yeah…..his failure to follow after her or even try to prevent her from leaving the room—wouldn't have been the first time—should have tuned her into the fact that he was up to something.

She just could have never anticipated it was this.

The time it takes for her to actually get to him is infuriating for a variety of reasons, most of which stem from the fact that what should be enjoyable, one of the happiest days of her life, has been soiled by the man who's been nothing but a thorn in her side since the day they met almost five years ago.

May 22nd, 2021 — Playmates

"He's back."

Karesse lifted her eyes from the wad of cash in hand that she just finished counting and met the vibrant emerald eyes of her coworker.

Kiana, KiKi, was easily one of the most beautiful women Karesse had ever laid eyes on. A flawless, deep complexion. Sharp, perfect features with striking eyes and curves that made every man and woman who laid eyes on her swoon almost immediately. Her no-nonsense approach to the business and life in general was something Karesse looked up to the moment she met the woman almost a year prior.

Almost a decade older but looking the same age as Karesse, there'd always been an almost maternal dynamic between them what with her always looking out for the, in many ways, naive twenty year-old.

Hence her heads up.

Karesse turned in her seat as Kiki slid in between her chair and the other unoccupied seat. They were in the midst of switching sets, hence why more bodies ambling and moving about vs sitting like she was. Karesse was on the tail end of her shift while a handful of the many other women were just getting started, hence the overwhelming aroma of perfume, fluids, and far too much hairspray.

"What?"

Kiki chuckled. "You heard me." She focused on the successful application of the first eyelash before turning to the young girl. "Well? You better go make that money, girl."

Money. The one thing Karesse never seemed to have enough of. Even what with her taking up her secret job as a "midnight ballerina" in conjunction with her part time job at Starbucks. The amount of income brought in covered her tuition, sure, and it most definitely made life significantly easier than where she started—utterly broke and on the brink of having to drop out of school after fucking up as badly as she did—but after all her other expenses, she barely broke even.

The past month, however, had been different.

Largely due to the man who was, as he had been for the past few weeks, waiting for her. He wasn't the first man who dropped a stack on her for private lap dances, but they were far, few, and in between. Not to mention the visits were always sprinkled out.

This man, however, had quickly become a regular as had the generous tip he always left. It'd helped a lot. Karesse would never deny that, but it didn't stop all the questions that rushed though her brain every time he showed up.

Some of which were answered when Kiki clued her into the fact that her…admirer of sorts wasn't some average Joe. He was famous. A professional wrestler, which explained his disgustingly perfect build. Valleys of solid, hard muscle that always flexed under her gentle touch as she danced atop him. A man like him was built for some sort of contact sport.

He was the top billed athlete in his sport, at that.

And paid very…very well according to several sites.

He was also married.

A stunning wife and four beautiful kids. That part didn't necessary surprise her, however, as she'd quickly learned through her time at the club that wedding bands were often nothing more than props for men to maintain and feign the image of wholesome, family men.

Roman Reigns was no different.

And yet he was.

Because unlike many of the men she was forced to entertain with balding, uneven hairlines, and arrogance that didn't match their 5'6 height they always rounded up to 5'10, Roman carried himself with regality and swagger that tracked. He was exactly who he thought he was, and that was….intriguing to Karesse.

Hence the way something in her stomach twisted every time he showed up—as he had, consistently, every Saturday night for almost the past month.

So while she continued to be surprised every time she exited the dressing room and maneuvered her way through the dimly lit and congested club, bodies mushed together, and met his waiting expression, she couldn't deny there was always a level of relief that accompanied his appearance.

If he intended for his visits to become a regular thing, she could get used to that.

Could get used to him.

A sentiment that was all but confirmed later that evening when what'd become routine quickly progressed into something else.

Her eyes lifted to his, her arms around his neck as she straddled his lap. The thin strings of her barely there top undone less than a minute into the song, hence the way her breast were free, exposed, and pushed against his chest. But it was the way his hands glided up her back, another roughly grasping at her ass, fiddling with the gold bottoms her ass all but swallowed, that made her take pause.

She struggled to keep her smile at bay, fully allured by not only his hypnotic gaze, but the scent of his cologne. Most men who requested lap dances carried with them a subtle odor she forced herself to ignore, as she recognized it was often a minimal level of perspiration fueled by the difficulty that came with composing themselves to keep the erections at bay.

Roman, from the night they met, always smelled good. Even with the bulge she felt pressing against her through her spread thighs. "You're not supposed to touch."

A cardinal rule she laid out the first time she entered the room with gold lining edging and dark green velvet furniture, accompanied by a pole and small platform to allow for greater flexibility and performance.

It was a rule he'd always respected.

Up until now.

He chuckled, and it made her body shiver. His voice was so damn deep. "Then push me away."

She had two options in that moment. Do exactly as he said. Or do exactly what she wanted.

She went with the latter.

Karesse grabbed his face and smashed her lips against his, instantly moaning and melting when his own hands pulled her close. She'd only kissed a couple of guys in her life at that point, but less than ten seconds into said kiss, it easily jumped to the top of 'best kiss' ever list.

She might have initiated it, but he quickly took control, tongue over her bottom lip and in her mouth, as his hands continued to explore her body while she writhed on top of him. Her moan, however, must have triggered something for him. He interrupted said kiss, her minty breath fanning his face, lips eager to feel his back on hers as he eyed her quizzically.

"How old are you?"

Karesse chuckled and shook her head, kissing around his mouth. "Now's a fine time to ask."

But what she considered a potential poor attempt at weird ass foreplay, he fully meant.

His mouth set into a frown. "I'm serious."

And she knew it. Could tell by the shift in his voice and stalled venturing of those big ass hands touching her all over, leaving invisible trails of growing heat and desire in its wake.

She sat back on his lap and smirked. Her hands found his and guided them to her chest. Unlike many of the girls she worked with, she didn't have massive ass tits—homegrown or manufactured. A moderate C cup, what she lacked up top was more than made up by the ass, thighs, and hips she used to wine, shake, and jiggle all over that stage to keep her bank account in the green and life on the right track.

Still, titties were titties, and the way he'd always eyed hers with hunger indicated they were big enough for him, and that was good enough for her.

She locked her palms on top of his, catching the subtle twitch of his thumb over her puckered, dark nipples. "How old do you think I am?"

But despite that minute sign of cracking, his resolve remained. "How….old."

Karesse, to her credit, maintained the image of indifference as she forced a sigh. "Twenty-five." Except her answer did nothing to chip away at the way he continued to eye her. She chuckled, praying her growing apprehension didn't betray her. "What? You wanna see my ID?" She shook her head. "Come on, you really think they'd let me work here if I wasn't grown?"

Her second question followed up with the way she leaned over and kissed the shell of his ear seemed to do the trick. His hands lifted to her waist and then the back of her hair when he yanked her head back and smashed his lips back onto hers.

She smiled into said kiss.

Yes. Yes, they would.

Because she was, in fact, not that grown. Sure, her ID reflected a DOB that matched what she'd just told him, but what twenty year-old didn't have a fake ID?

They clocked it the day she attempted to apply, desperate and with no other options, but they also saw what had always been the case for her.

That while her face leaned on the youthful side, she was thick in all of the right places, thus age restrictions being optional and inconsequential.

So while it wasn't a lie reserved specifically for him, as it was a reserved, default lie, it was still the beginning of what she could have never imagined to be a life changing journey.

June 5th, 2021

Karesse flashed a small smile and placed the five dollar bill in the open palm of the delivery driver who offered a distracted grin, the white ear buds in his ear that peaked through shaggy brown hair clearly more interesting than a customer's pleasantries.

Accepting the boxes, the heat from which traveled to her fingertips and made her bite down on her lip with a tiny hiss, Karesse bumped the door closed with her hip. She started to shift the boxes close to her chest, allowing the smaller one on top to slide close to her chest, as she went to turn the deadbolt lock. However, the weight of the boxes were relieved and allowed her both hands to lock the door back.

Roman stood before her, the boxes in hand that she could barely hold with two hands looking like two small to-go plates in his big hands and against his even bigger, broader chest. The private rooms they'd spent time in before transitioning outside of the club always seemed too small for someone like him, and despite her apartment being twice the size of the room, it still felt too small for him.

Karesse was unsure if there was a place that could accommodate someone like Roman Reigns.

"Thank you," she murmured. Turning to finish locking the door, she spun on the heel of her sock covered feet to see him looking down at the boxes curiously. "What?"

His gaze lifted to her, and he chuckled. "Think you got enough?"

Karesse rolled her eyes and shrugged, pushing her silky hair behind her ear. "You look like you like to eat."

She quickly realized that it was the wrong choice of words when something flashed in his gaze as he raked his eyes over her. "You ain't wrong."

Clearing her throat and doing her best to play off how flustered she felt, which was stupid as fuck considering he'd seen and groped every inch of her, Karesse walked into the kitchen, Roman in tow. Hitting the switch, she shuffled over to the fridge and bit down on her bottom lip seeing limited options.

"Ummm, is—"

"Water is fine," he answered. She turned to see he'd placed the boxes down on the counter and was standing with his arms crossed. It was only then she realized he'd removed his hoodie that didn't make much sense for one to wear in June, especially what with the brutal Floridian heat.

But she figured it was more so to help conceal his identity, especially with the way he kept the hoodie over his head as they climbed the two flight of steps it took to reach her apartment.

"Cool," she agreed. Karesse pulled out two water bottles from the pack of 24 that sat on the floor where linoleum met the carpeted area that stretched throughout the rest of the two bedroom apartment, sans the single, shared bathroom.

Plates prepared and drinks in hand, it wasn't until they migrated to the living room and the TV played some random replay of an old SVU episode that Karesse felt the strange tension that'd never been felt prior to this—their first time interacting outside of work—gradually melt.

"I didn't think you could even eat this stuff," she muttered, picking at her crust, eating it piece by piece, dipping it in the wing sauce that was just about gone. "Let alone this much."

He chuckled. "I probably shouldn't."

"Yeah, I heard old people have to be mindful of their diet and shit. Especially active old people." The small smile played on her lip as he looked at her with irritation that only made her grin widen. She waited until she was done chewing, reaching across to grab a napkin to dab at the corner of her mouth. "What?"

"Shut up." She did so only for the sake of the water bottle she'd twisted the cap off to down the remnants of food that remained despite thorough chewing. She was always so damn hungry after work. People don't realize what energy is expended from dancing. The first few weeks of work, she most definitely tapped out and passed out on her bed the minute she got home. "Where's your roommate?"

She took pause for a second but remembered her mentioning said roommate when he indicated initial reservation regarding them going back to her place. Not that they really had much of a choice.

They damn sure couldn't go to his place. For…obvious reasons.

"Home," she answered. "She always goes back home for a month at the start of summer. I think she'll be back sometime next week." Or perhaps after that. Amanda had always been…not the easiest person to catch up with. On top of holding some type of position within her sorority, being a student athlete, and working a part time job meant very little downtime during the school year. So as far back as when they first met, assigned as roommates during freshman year, summer, ironically, has always been the stretch of the year where most communication occurs through texts, phone calls, and FaceTime.

When Amanda was in town though, they always made sure to link up. Even if just for the night.

If only she knew who Karesse was "linking up" with right now.

"Ya'll close?"

Karesse looked over at him, watching as he started to fold over his used napkin atop the now empty, barely any crumbs outside of the stains of the wings plate that he reached over to place on the coffee table.

How his plate was twice the size of hers in terms of serving size and yet she was still trying to finish up her food was beyond her.

"Yeah, she's really cool." Karesse shrugged. "Wouldn't have agreed to move in with her off-campus if she wasn't."

"She still in school, too?"

Perhaps that random acting class she took freshman year paid off, cause the ease in which she skillfully hid the panic that arose at his question, was nothing short of a masterclass level performance. The trepidation that quickly brewed at the sight of his dark, thick eyebrows scrunching together from confusion mixed with curiosity. Spiked at the thought of him pushing for more information that would eventually expose the lie regarding her age.

Karesse offered a small nod. "Never too late to go back, right?"

He chuckled, leaning back against the sofa, her focus briefly shifting to his inked arms. His tattoos were obviously a nod to his Pacific Islander heritage—Samoan, if she recalled the Wikipedia page right—but she wondered if they held specific meaning beyond just cultural. "You say that shit like you're old."

"You would know."

The way he rolled his eyes made her smile return. "What's your name?" As if already knowing what her counter would be, he offered the clarification unrequited. "Your real name."

Once more, this man who she still knew so little yet so much about rendered her silent. One of the first rules Kiki drilled into her when she first started at the club was the importance of anonymity. Men, people, whomever, sought places like Playmates because it was a sanctuary for just that—invisibility. The ability to shed organic, birth assigned identification in exchange for whoever one wanted to be. Dancer or customer.

It was why they all went by stage names.

Velvet was hers. Red Velvet, initially, but she'd quickly ditched the adjective when she learned it was a reference to her complexion.

Karesse was many things, but a colorist was and would never be one of them.

She swallowed, reaching to place her empty plate atop his. "You're not very good with asking questions in a timely manner, are you?"

Because asking her age after she was practically naked, on his lap, lips swollen from their heated makeout session was one thing, but inquiring about her government after agreeing to return back to her place was…something.

Maybe stranger danger was a thing only stressed to little girls growing up. Not boys.

Leaning back into the arm of the sofa, she pulled her legs up to her chest as he shrugged indifferently. "What are you gonna do? Kick my shins?"

Karesse quickly stretched one leg just enough to, in fact, kick him. His leg that felt solid and hard against the ball of her foot. He caught her ankle, keeping her steady so that the heel of her foot sat on his big thigh. Licking her lips, she watched and felt the chills shoot up her body when he traced small circles on the span of skin where the top of her foot met her leg. "I'm serious."

She could tell.

Again, she considered deflecting. Perhaps even coming up with another alias, but guilt ate at her. He hadn't, to her knowledge, been dishonest with her regarding his own identity. Granted, unlike herself, he didn't really have the luxury to do so. While she had her own social media footprint, it was nothing compared to his own.

She already knew so much about him, while he knew so little about her.

It felt….wrong.

But beyond that…she didn't want to lie to him.

Not again.

And certainly not about this.

He'd met Velvet, but maybe, maybe it would be nice if he could meet and get to know Karesse.

"Karesse." She answered after a good two minutes of silence, something stirring in her stomach at the way the corner of his mouth rose to break the smallest smile. "My name is Karesse."  

What makes it infinitely worse, however, is that Karesse can't entirely place the blame on him. Naturally, as is the case with most lies, he eventually found out the truth.

She was forced to disclose her dishonesty.

That when they met, while he was only three days away from his 36th birthday, she was only eight days away from her own.

Her 21st birthday.

He didn't talk to her for a week after that, and Karesse truly believed her short-lived, whirlwind romance with her rich, older, sexy ass man was but a thing of the past. And she couldn't blame him. Granted, her age being the deal-breaker and not his marital status was definitely….something.

Turns out neither were large enough issues for him to block and delete her number, because when anger settled, he was back, and it was like….like nothing happened. Not enough to ruin what they'd started to build.

And they continued to build. Because pretty soon, visits to the club and him coming to see her transitioned into her going to see him. Paid flights with first class seating into whatever city he was in for the night. Domestic and abroad. It started as a sort of….companionship, perhaps. Friendship? Maybe both, as it didn't seem to take very long for openness beyond the surface level topics to be unlocked on both sides.

July 24th, 2021

"Is there a reason you got these so damn long?"

Karesse fingers paused mid unraveling. She'd just gotten through with detangling a stubborn section of her hair locked into the kanekalon with the rat tail end of her comb. A success she was proud of until someone just had to fucking ruin it.

Again.

She looked over her shoulder, arms at her side keeping the blanket close to her chest unlike his that was bare, like the rest of his surprisingly warm body she was nestled into. In between his thick legs as he worked to help her take out the braids she should have taken out at least a week ago but kept pushing off.

So his surprise, unannounced visit provided the perfect opportunity to cut down a usually two to three hour job in half. At least, that would be the case if not for his lack of co-operation.

"Ya know, if you worked half as much as you complained, we'd almost be done by now." She huffed, reaching for another braid, using that same metal end to start to undo from the bottom of the plait, hoping and praying it would unravel naturally and without any unnecessary effort.

He sucked his teeth, the feel of him wading through her remaining braids, as if searching for the shortest one, only made her roll her eyes. "We would have been done if you didn't have so many of them." Men. "And next time can you pick a color that isn't the exact fucking same as your hair? It all looks the same."

The speed in which Karesse angled her body to ensure he could feel the intensity of her glare defied physics. "Because your blind ass refuses to put your damn glasses on."

Glasses that sat on the nightstand beside her bed that she'd picked up for him during a late night Walmart trip several visits prior where he'd cursed lowly at forgetting his glasses. Something that took her by surprise at first given she'd never really seen him use them. But she remembered. Remembered and picked up a pair, having asked that same day of discovery what strength he used.

He cut his eyes, and Karesse had to take a moment to take pause. Despite it going on almost two months since they met, the nature, depth, and connection between them—the two least expected individuals—was something she still hadn't fully processed. She knew that she cared for him something serious though. In ways she'd never felt about anyone else. Ever. "Smartass. How are my glasses going to help me distinguish black from black?"

Even if his old ass was irritating the living shit out of her.

His disrespectful ass introduction and irritating ass, hypothetical question quickly snatched her back to focus on the task at hand.

"Shut up," she muttered and turned back around. Peripheral vision granted her a glimpse of him reaching for the scissors off the dresser making her turn her head once more. "And you better not cut my hair."

"Stop moving so damn much, and maybe I won't."

Another smile cracked on her face despite the way she elbowed him in his hard ass stomach only for him to grab her arm, his thumb caressing the skin above her elbow. A gentle, subtle touch that evoked a sigh and the way her eyes fluttered as reclined back into him.

His mouth against her temple as she bit down on her bottom lip and managed a low, murmured, "you're an asshole."

He made a sound while she placed her hands over his muscled forearm that settled across her stomach under the sheets. "So I've been told."

They fell into another round of natural, normal silence in a way that most would find partially uncomfortable, if just a tad bit. But that was never the case with them, maybe towards the beginning of their relationship, but at that point, too much had been shared and experienced for them to be anything but comfortable.

Beyond that.

"I wanna ask you something."

Karesse stilled and suddenly wished that some distance existed between them so she didn't have to feign the bulb of tension that bloomed at his unexpected statement. She eventually found it in her to turn her head and look up at him. "Well, you gonna ask or did you forget already?" He rolled his eyes as she upped the ante, grateful for the small bit of successful deflection. "It happens with old people."

"Keep talking, Res." This time, she was the one to roll her eyes as she looked forward and reached for a braid to unravel. His mouth dipped to her ear as she bit back a smile. "The day I finally show you what this old man can do…" Her stomach coiled and throat grew tight at his husky, deep ass voice and the subtle graze of his finger on the underside of her breast. "You won't be saying or doing shit after the fact."

Her lips parted ever so slightly, and her thighs clamped together. Roman chuckled, clearly aware of her not so subtle reaction to his….promise? Either way, it was followed up with a return to his opening statement. "Why do you talk to yourself whenever we're in the car?"

"What?" She turned to look at him, the scowl on her face making him chuckle as he reached to push a few renegade braids from near her eye. "I—I don't talk to myself."

Even as she refuted it aloud, Karesse couldn't ignore the pang in her chest at both his question and the reality before her. It was bound to happen sooner or later. Try as hard as she did to be subtle about it around people who didn't already know, with how much time they'd spent together over the past two months, it was only a matter of time.

A part of her was surprised it'd taken him this long to ask.

He eyed her skeptically as she resisted the urge to push that pesky strand of his loose curls out of his face. For a man, he had some beautiful ass hair, and the fact that his routine was all but three steps and done made her sick to her stomach. Men. "Well you certainly ain't talking to me, and I know you're not talking to the driver so—" His eyes narrowed, voice and expression the blend of playful and serious. "You hear voices or some shit?"

"You're so aggravating." She sucked her teeth and elbowed him once more. "No, I don't hear voices." Karesse wasn't entirely sure, but she could have sworn that was a thing with one of his colleagues. Randy something? She couldn't be too sure. Her attendance at his shows were predominately focused on him and the Bloodline. Everyone else was background noise. "Like I said, I'm not talking to myself. Not…not really."

"Not really?"

She glared and focused on the TV mounted above her dresser. A gift from him to replace her old one that was fine but for the crack in the bottom left corner that caused a triangle of black and kaleidoscope colors that continued to spread. Something that didn't really bother her, but it bothered him. Thus his replacement. Just one of many things throughout her room that were courtesy of the man she was pressed up against. "I'm—I'm singing. Or…saying lyrics or—" Karesse blew out a breath and bit the inside of her cheek. "I told you that my parents died when I was younger, but I guess…I guess it was more that they were killed."

She could feel the way he tensed behind her, nonverbal indication of immediate regret, almost. "Karesse—"

"Car accident. Drunk driver. Obviously, I survived, but they…"

"Karesse—"

Another attempt to stop what'd already been started, but despite the typical somatic symptoms that accompanied discussion of what was without a doubt the hardest thing she'd ever been through, there was little desire to stop. No part of her that vied for a way out. She didn't love the discussion, but it wasn't unbearable, either. And if she had to take a guess, it was largely due to the man she was speaking to.

"After that, being in a car was….it was hard for me." Horrific. It was horrific. Screaming, crying, and vomiting at just the thought of it that few in her life, at the time, honored in a way she needed. "I was forced to do therapy for a while, and the therapist suggested a couple of things to help, and they did, I guess. But the thing that really helped, that stuck with me, for whatever reason, was when she told me to find my happy place and return to it whenever I was in a car."

The faintest smile grew on her face as memories of horror were flooded with recollections of ardent joy.

"We always had music playing in my house, and my mom—she loved Whitney. Played I Wanna Dance With Somebody so much that to this day, I hate that damn song. But—" For some reason, his quiet chuckle was calming. As was the way he rubbed small circles against her stomach. "I Believe in You and Me was her absolute favorite. My dad used to come up behind her as she played it while fixing dinner or folding clothes, and he'd hold her, and they just—they were so happy, and it made me happy. One of my favorite memories of them. With them."

She swallowed, gradually returning to a reality that was a lot less bleak than usual returns following her disclosing of a painful, traumatic past. "So anytime I'm in a car, I repeat the lyrics to myself and go to my happy place to keep myself from panicking." Karesse angled her head once more to gaze up at him, managing a small smirk. "Make sense? Or do you need a better explanation. I know old men can—"

He silenced her with a kiss that made her want to lean into him and never sit up, never do anything to rip her from that moment. Especially with the way he cupped her face, gentle and tender, her eyes fluttering just enough to make out the way his eyes focused on her and reflected something strong and unspoken.

But it was felt.

From that day forward, not a car ride with him has occurred without I Believe In You and Me already playing before either he or their driver can even open the door for her. And when it's the two or three of them, his right hand is either always on her thigh or holding hers.

Always.

Karesse often wonders who fell first. One some level, it felt like that award went to her. Looking back, she certainly started to fall before he did.

She must have.

One doesn't let a married man fifteen years their senior take their virginity in the presidential suite at the Ritz Carlton without some level of feelings existing.

Strong feelings.

Feelings that suddenly mean nothing and everything when he finally walks into the room. Showered once more, as he always does after the many different events that take place post Mania. Especially after a win.

But it's the casual appearance, the usual one that greeted her when he'd meet her in his suite after SmackDown and what said casual attire means that has her with her guard all the way up. Even more than before.

This bastard….

She marches over to him as he turns to ensure the door behind him is locked. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

He turns around, eyeing her up and down before chuckling and sauntering past like he didn't even hear her.

Karesse closes her eyes and reminds herself that she promised both herself and her baby girl that she'd never lay a hand on Roman like that again. It was wrong.

But he's fucking pushing it.

He's pushing her.

He always does.

She's right behind him, following his big frame as he plops down on the sofa. "Don't walk away when I'm talking to you."

Roman sits with his legs spread, phone in hand, focus on the screen that reflects in his eyes and highlights the faint bruise above his cheek.

She wishes Punk had hit his ass harder.

"So talk."

Her tongue hits the roof of her mouth like her anger meter ticks to the farthest right of the spectrum.

"What do you mean we'll see your ass all summer?" She jumps straight to it, knowing that time is not on her side for a variety of reasons. Too many possibilities grow exponentially with each minute she remains with the man before her. The longer she stays, the higher the chances she'll end up doing something she'll regret.

Always does.

"You're part time now."

He continues to tap away on his phone with one hand, the other resting on the top of the sofa with the way his arm is stretched out. Fuck, his big ass almost takes up on the whole damn sofa. "Not anymore."

"What do you mean not anymore?"

Roman finally decides to grace her with his attention, lifting his eyes from his phone only to look at her like she just asked him what color the sky is.

"I won the title."

Unfortunately. "I know."

Irritation mars his handsome face. For a second, she takes note of the bags under his eyes. He looks exhausted. Probably is.

Matches, especially longer ones like the master class he put on with Punk, always take more out of him that he likes to admit. If he's ever even admitted it to anyone. Because the way he disclosed it, disclosed his condition, almost quietly, during one of their many nights together as she sat on her knees behind him, hands working to smooth out the tight knots and kinks in his back and shoulders, it felt like an admission.

One meant for her ears and her ears only.

"So I have to defend it," he continues. "I have to kick off this title reign."

"You don't have to be full time to do that, Roman," she reminds. "Hell, you were part time for almost the entire last year of your last title reign. Have been part time for years now—"

"Yeah, well not anymore."

His interruption is sharp, to the point, and accompanied with that dip in his already deep ass voice. The subtle change in intonation that always prefaces him saying something to piss her the fuck off.

Too bad she beats him to it.

"Full time husband and father seemed to have gotten a lot shorter than I remember." She crosses her arms over her chest, fully aware of the anger that flashes in his eyes. She's also fully uncaring. "Or maybe just pretending to be all that is getting old."

His jaw ticks, and he looks away, running his hand through his beard she can tell he recently touched up, the gray hairs she used to lay in bed and count as he slept completely blended in. Black on black. He turns to look back at her. "Watch your mouth, Karesse."

She scoffs. "You really gon' sit there and tell me to watch my mouth?" Pointing to herself, she steps closer as his focus remains on her. "After the shit you said tonight? On live fucking TV for the whole world to hear?"

Several things were said this evening, but Karesse can still feel the way her entire body stilled, the sound of music playing, people laughing, completely drowned out. How Melo tensed next to her. Stark contrasts to the way Brie clung to her with one arm, the other extended as she pointed to the TV mounted in the corner of the private room.

"Hi, daddy!" She waved happily, as if Roman, who sat among the commentators wearing that smug expression, freshly obtained title sitting in front of him, could see his youngest child's happy greeting.

It briefly revived the bile in the back of her throat as she sat in the private box and watched him celebrate his win with them.

The gentle, heartfelt way he hugged and dapped his two sons. Kissed his other two daughters on the top of their head.

Kissed her.

Karesse was forced to blink away tears as she worked to distract her daughter from witnessing the sight that broke her mother's heart. That would one day break her own heart when childlike naivety could no longer shield her sweet baby girl from the devastating truth of her parental dynamics.

When she no long accepted why daddy could only spend the night sometimes and could only call her on the phone or FaceTime her on the tablet when bedtime rolled around and she just wanted to cuddle with him.

Truths Karesse, for her own mental sake, refuses to allow herself to think too much about. She will have to. Do more than just think. Will have to confront. But they're not there yet nor is she even close to working though all of the other present….shit that is is her life.

She would like to blame the crowd who kick-started it all. Carried over what's been heavily pushed online to something catapulted to the surface for the devil himself to address.

"Melo." Roman spoke in that smug ass tone that made her want to punch him in his face. Again. Eyes focused on the camera, it felt more like he was focused on her. Like he was speaking directly to her versus the man who stood beside her, his own retained title over his shoulder, other secured around her body, hand on her hip. "See, you seem still a little fresh in this business." A beat. "You did a big thing tonight, but I done that many times."

Everything after that was completely inaudible and stomped under the intensity of rage that she had to quell for the sake of the people around her, primarily the man beside her and the child in her arms.

Because to and for most, perhaps even Carmelo, it was nothing more than a reference to him retaining his US Championship title in his three way match against Sami and Trick. His first WrestleMania match.

But Karesse knew better.

She knows Roman, and she knows that his snide ass remark was nothing more than a cheap shot and dig to the fact that Carmelo, being the damn near perfect man that he is, of course utilized what should have been his moment to make it theirs. To jump out of the ring, greet her where she sat with close family and friends, on both their ends, and to reach for the small, red velvet box that his dad handed him with a huge smile on his face.

He proposed.

He proposed, and she said yes for over 50,000 attendees and God knows how many viewers watching through various streams to see.

Including Roman.

So no, while a clever cover, what with feeding into the massive push for a storyline and match between her now fiancé and ex/baby daddy/whatever the fuck he is, Karesse knew better.

She knows better.

Roman's hungry gaze rakes over her frame, the way she's bent over unintentionally allotting him an up close view of her cleavage, breast shoved and pushed together through her thin tank top.

"Did I lie?"

His simple, smartass comment, however, prevents her from focusing too much on the stare that creates a strange sense of discomfort and something she refuses to feed.

It reminds her why she's here.

"I am not a fucking toy, Roman!" Her volumes jumps at least two levels, but it seemingly has little to no effect on the man who's never looked more unbothered. "I'm not a punchline you can throw out there when you wanna prove who has the bigger fucking dick."

"Well, we both know the answer to that."

"I'm serious!" Karesse snaps. "This isn't a fucking game. This is my life. My life that you keep injecting yourself into when you have no business."

He sits forward, phone discarded to the side of him, matching both her energy and intensity. "You wanna drag my daughter across the country so you can be with your little boyfriend and expect me to be okay with it?"

"He's not my boyfriend." Karesse counters calmly. "He's my fiancé."

For whatever reason, there's an almost bitter aftertaste following that final word leaving her mouth. What should be some level of pride and excitement is nothing more than a bullet to lodge into Roman's hubris and to tackle his fragile ego.

It's….it's wrong. The sudden discomfort that stems from the ring on her finger. A placement that also feels….wrong.

But that's another issue for another day.

Regardless of confusing feelings, the objective is accomplished in the way he looks away, muttering darkly, "yeah, well, we'll see about that."

She scoffs. "You're unbelievable." A hypocrite. A fucking hypocrite is what he is, regardless of the fact that black band he's never seen without when the cameras are rolling is nowhere to be seen right now. It never is when he's with her. "I don't even understand what your goal is in this. You're on Raw now. Melo is on SmackDown. We won't even be in the same cities."

The closest they'll come to crossing paths is PLE's, and even then, the likelihood of Roman working any outside of the major ones that Melo most likely won't be on the card for is slim to none. So—

"Was." His interruption to her mental pondering draws her focus back to him. "He was on SmackDown."

Karesse grows silent, partially waiting for a follow-up that isn't even necessary. Not when she takes a step back to think about what he just said.

What it means.

Her shoulders drop. "What did you do?"

Roman, however, resumes his unbothered stance, leaning back against the sofa once more. "You heard the people. They want a feud between me and—"

"What did you do?" She interrupts, voice weighed down with grit and growing anger.

Head tilted, the small smile on his face has never made her feel so disgusted. "He's on Raw, effective as of next week."

"No. No." She shakes her head, unsure who she's attempting to convince at this point. Herself or the man who can never seem to just leave her alone. "He—he just retained tonight. The US Championship is a SmackDown title. He can't—"

"People drop titles all the time, Karesse." He shrugs. "Sometimes even at the first show after their big win."

She can only stare at him. Can only look with absolute disgust how fucking unbothered he is by some of the grimiest shit she's heard and seen in some time.

"What the fuck, Roman?" Karesse can barely contain her anger. Can feel her body trembling from the extent of rage she feels in this moment. Her palm burns with desire to connect with his stupid, smug ass face. "You're mad at and wanna punish me so you take it out on him? Fuck with his career?" It's disgusting. "What kind of weak ass shit is that?"

He keeps his vow low in tandem with his morality. "I told you to watch your mouth."

"Fuck you!" She snaps, completely uncaring of if her voice travels through what she would think are thick ass walls. Who gives a fuck. The whole floor could hear as far as she's concerned. "You're a pussy ass nigga for that!"

"I'm not gonna tell you again—"

"I don't care, Roman!" Her icy tone slices though his supposed indifference as he looks away and brushes the tip of his nose with his thumb. "That's what you don't seem to understand. I don't care about what pisses you off or upsets you." Karesse scoffs and shakes her head. "Why should I when you don't give a damn about me and my feelings?"

At that, he turns to look at her once more. To say she can't see the shift, the lessening caustic tone of his voice replaced with something familiar that she refuses to acknowledge. "You know that's not true."

"Oh?" Another scoff as she crosses her arms once more, fully prepared to throw at him every fact that, try as he might, he'll never be able to dispel. The truth can never be negated. "I tell you that I want to spend time on the road with my partner, my fiancé, and the first chance you get to fuck with that, to fuck with me—"

"No. You didn't say you wanted to go. You said he wanted you to go—"

"What difference—"

"The difference is that whenever you bring him up, it's what he wants. What he thinks. It's never what you want. And we both know why." Karesse refuses to rip her gaze away or break the eye contact between them even as he lifts his big body from the sofa. Stands directly in front of her, so close that craning her head up because of their height difference grants her a view close enough to see the specks of gold in his eyes. "It's because you don't want him. You can stand there and try do deny it all you want, but I know and you know it's truth."

The silence is damning. The sound of her heart beating wildly and erratically drowning out everything else.

But she can't let it win.

Can't let him win.

Can't let him keep winning.

"You know what I want, Roman?" Karesse steps forward, her voice a whisper that infiltrates the tension fueled silence. "I want you to stop interfering in my life. I want you to stop using our daughter as a pawn—"

"That's fucking bullshit and you know it—"

"No. It's not. It's the truth, and you know it." Karesse swallows, the exhaustion of this whole thing taking its toll when hurt bleeds into the frustration. "I do everything I can to keep our coparenting as peaceful as possible for the sake of Bri, but sometimes…."

"What?" He presses, tilting his head and pushing her in a way no one else can. Or ever will, most likely. The anger ebbed away by her own emotional pain easily picked up and utilized to maximize his vexation. "You want a formal custody agreement? Is that what you want?" She closes her eyes and drops her head. Here he goes. "Fine. Let's do it." Karesse lifts her head just in time to witness the sneer before the bomb. "You won't last five fucking minutes in that courtroom."

And just like that, all defenses are instantly dismantled. The drop of her shoulders, slight widening of her eyes and tightening of her chest preceding the intrusion of memories she'd give anything to rid herself of permanently.

"No!" Her shouts echoed throughout the courtroom as she worked to free herself from the hands persistent and hellbent at grabbing her. "I don't wanna go!" Tears filled her eyes as she refused to rip her eyes from Keith who wrestled against the court officers who restricted him. The judge's warnings drowned out under the sorrow of what'd just occurred. "Please, Mr. Judge! I wanna stay with Keith!" A beat. "I wanna stay with my brother!"

"Karesse."

It's the desperate, concerned call of her name that rips her from memories shoved so far to the back of her mind that despite years of trying her damn hardest, she's never been able to purge. Never been able to forget.

Never will.

"Fuck," Roman curses lowly, as she gradually returns to the reality before her versus the one behind. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I shouldn't—I shouldn't have said that."

Recognition continues to grow as she becomes aware of the fact that not only is he standing directly in front of her, but his hands are on her. Gently cupping her face, his lips pressed against her hairline. She closes her eyes, standing completely still, frozen in place and time as he continues to issue apology after apology.

Finally, however, the ice thaws enough for her to regain control.

To revoke the power from a past that's only ever debilitated.

She shoves at his chest, growling, "get the fuck off of me!"

He's unmoving, arms around her waist, keeping her boxed in. "Kar—"

"I said get off!"

But in true Roman fashion, he stands firm, feet planted and anchored into ground she feels trembling underneath her. Because that's what he always does. Causes the collapse while also standing ten toes down in and for the recovery effort. Always ready to catch what he made fall.

And she does just that.

The beating on his chest and shoving against his solid frame gradually settles and transitions into the way she clutches his shirt.

"How could—how could you s-say that to m-me?" She cries, hating the way his gentle touches, the way his coarse fingers stroke back her hair. and his hand on her hip tugs her just enough to where the desire to lean into him is all but unavoidable. He's like a vortex she can't seem to resist despite all the ways in which he absolutely can be resisted. "You know—"

"I know," he murmurs. Voice hoarse and almost pained, her eyes shut when he presses his lips to hair hairline and the material of his shirt becomes further intertwined in her fingers as her grip tightens. His as well. "I'm sorry." Resolve all but disappears as she finally stops her body's autonomous pull, falling into and against his chest. "You know I would never do that to you or Bri." Her lips press together, eyes clenching shut tighter when he cradles the back of her head. "I love you two too damn much to ever do that to ya'll."

And as sick as it might be, she believes him. Knows that he would, in fact, never do that. For reasons even beyond why such a cruel threat triggered her as much as it did. Because Karesse has been embedded too long in the game that is Roman Reigns to not know him better than most. To know that his inability to manage his temper when backed into a corner will almost always result in him resorting to the lowest of blows.

Followed by immediate regret.

It's become a pattern of theirs, and Karesse lost sight a while ago as to whether or not the recognition of said pattern allows her to forgive him as "easily" as she does. Because she knows he doesn't actually mean it.

Or if it's nothing more than reason #94825903 as to why this game of theirs is one she'll never be able to fully step away from.

Even if they didn't have Briella Mae.

"Stay with me tonight." She stills in his embrace, unsure exactly as to when she transitioned from clutching his shirt to wrapping her arms around him. "Bri, too," he adds, as if it wasn't a given. There has never been a just her since the birth of their daughter. What was once the two of them has been the three ever since. If she's in his suite, so is their baby girl. Naturally so. Because despite the dysfunction that is her parents dynamic, in Bri's eyes, nothing is more normal or right than staying in the same space as her mommy and daddy. "Please." The desperation in his voice tugs at that place in her heart that's never been able to resist him. The part that reciprocates his longing in every sense of the word. "I just want to be with you two."

Karesse can't tell which sickens her more. That in the span of less than five minutes he can go from saying the cruelest of shit to her to being the only person can who can soothe her as such—holding her, professing love, and issuing recompense in any way he can.

Or the fact that she agrees.

November 5th, 2021

The thrum of the base was resounding and relenting. Battling against the boisterous noise of a packed courtyard, bodies mushed together and arms raised with either phones in hand recording or drinks that were either seconds away from being downed or drowned in the sea of individuals, spilling onto the courtyard.

Karesse was in the latter of two groups.

Lips stretched into a broad smile that'd been on her face from the moment she and Amanda started pre-gaming. Music blasting as they helped each other get dressed, hair and makeup prioritized over outfits that left little to the imagination and snagged attention as soon as they sauntered in.

Her bare legs against the cool metal seating in the stadium was dulled out by adrenaline that beamed and soared watching the Panthers score a game winning touchdown in the last ten seconds of the game. The applause was thunderous. For her first two years of college, despite never having a strong interest in sports, she made it a mission to attend every football game. Mostly and primarily because batting her lashes at the right players always meant admission into the best parties.

Parties that, eventually, were a large part of the reason she fucked around and lost her scholarship.

But that was then, and Karesse had learned her lesson the hard way. It'd been forever and a day since she allowed herself to be dragged back to any frat house or off campus apartment. She knew better, but beyond that, she was doing better.

And tonight was not an exception to that. She'd more or less made Amanda swear a blood oath to not allow her to make any reckless ass decisions, and with her roommate and best friend also on the same 'we can't fuck around' grind, it made for the perfect accountability partner.

That didn't mean, however, that Karesse couldn't let loose. This was her senior year and thus her last chance to attend Homecoming. She wasn't about to miss out on a good time, especially when things were going so well in her life.

Better than well.

Way….way better than well.

"Oh shittttttt!" The DJ's voice boomed from his setup, transcending over the crowd and kick-starting various, similar sounds from fellow attendees. Including Amanda who stood beside Karesse and tugged on her arm.

Karesse smiled and lowered her arm to meet glazed over eyes that reflected a certain level of inebriation but not to the point that it deterred or concerned her. While they were both certainly a little tipsy, Karesse, like Amanda, knew their limits. Had partied hard enough their freshman and sophomore year to know now what was the end of the line. They were buzzed. That was about it.

"This our damn song." Amanda threw her hands up as Karesse stuck out her tongue playfully and threw her head back to down the rest of her drink before tossing the empty cup into the crowd.

"Damn sure is."

She easily ignored what sounded like someone protesting and began dancing with her friend, each lady singing out loudly and proudly to Doja Cat and Saweetie's collab that'd easily gone triple platinum in their household since its release.

But the ante was upped when the DJ transitioned to the next song that had Karesse ready to find the nearest table to jump on on so she could be allotted the room needed to shake ass like she really wanted to.

"Damn, I ain't seen your ass in a minute, Shaw."

The loud yet calm, smooth voice that managed to transcend the crowd gathered Karesse's attention. She immediately rolled her eyes. "You know I don't be outside like that no more."

Christian James smiled, emphasizing the dimples in his cheeks and the tooth gems on his canines. "Oh, trust me, I know."

Once upon a time, the 6'1 tight end with light eyes, a pretty smile, and a chiseled body with abs so defined and cut she could slice bread on and with them was someone Karesse cared about. As much as someone coming off an almost two year relationship and away at school for the first time could. They were in the same public speaking class and at the time, true to her nature, she'd been too shy to interact or introduce herself. Them sitting next to each other, however, resulted in him introducing himself, her doing the same, and the rest was history.

They'd vibed well enough, connected on a level she hadn't experienced with a guy outside of her ex, and they'd gone on a handful of dates. She'd rocked his Letterman at points. He made sure that she made it home safe from every party she attended and that no one ever took advantage of her during several nights of drinking to the point where she blacked out. Even leaving a note and Advil on the nightstand for her to take whenever she woke up. The whole nine yards. But at the end of the day, her lack of willingness to sleep with him ended up being the thing that made their flame fizzle out. And she understood it. She respected it, because she could see he tried his best to make it work, but like most guys her age, most men, he needed more.

And she wasn't able or willing to do that.

So they "broke up" in whatever way two people who never actually dated could.

Karesse never referred to him as her boyfriend and vice versa. It was an amicable parting, and they'd run into each other from time to time, but this was the first time they'd interacted beyond the small smile and nod of acknowledgment.

He raked his eyes over her. "You look good."

Karesse started to bite on her bottom lip but remembered her lipstick and instead returned the compliment. "So do you."

And he did.

He'd put on some weight since freshman year, and it looked good on him. His white polo clung to his muscles and highlighted the ink on his right bicep that she didn't recall.

It was that dark ink, however, that reminded Karesse of something.

Roman.

The unanswered texts and missed call she'd forgotten to return as his outreach attempts occurred in the midst of she and Amanda getting ready. She'd meant to call him back while Amanda drove them to campus, but it'd slipped her mind.

Fuck.

But the music transitioning to Juvenile, Amanda gleefully tugging on her arm, and Christian smirking at her all served as other forms of distraction. His eyes twinkled with mischief she understood fully.

"For old time's sake?"

It only took Karesse a minute to contemplate and decide. She could call Roman back later.

He'd understand.

She tilted her head and adjusted her dress, hiking it up mid thigh as she turned around and bent over. Looking back over her shoulder when he moved behind her and started to glide his hand down her back.

"You know it."

It took exactly three slamming on her finger against the snooze button for Karesse to finally find it in her to wake up. And even then, she'd laid in bed and groaned quietly at the sun that peaked through closed blinds for her to muster the strength just to sit up. An action that immediately made her wince as she scratched at her scalp through her bonnet. Stretching her arms made a sort of soreness shoot through her body that she hadn't experienced in a while.

Not since she went through two weeks of intense pole dancing lessons before being "approved" to hit the stage.

Sitting up in bed, leaning against her headboard, the prior night's events gradually returned to her recollection. She wasn't hungover. Didn't have that raging headache that made her bury her head under the covers and hide away in her dorm for hours on end until she could drag herself out of bed. But damn was she exhausted.

What time did we even get back in?

A question that made her grab her phone and drag her hand over her face as she typed in her passcode to unlock it. But the several red numbers next to the green icons at the bottom of the screen as well as the time reflected in the top right corner immediately made her stomach drop.

Fuck.

She never responded to Roman.

She frowned and cursed lowly, briefly contemplating waiting until later but given that it was already almost noon, later seemed like a not great idea.

Her fingers quickly navigated to his contact, thumb hovering over his number when she considered something. She was almost certain she'd never called him on a Sunday. Text, sure, but call?

It made her take pause.

What if….

Karesse took a deep breath and reminded herself that if he was….busy, he simply wouldn't answer the phone.

It was that simple.

She hit call.

Kicking the blankets back, she started to make a quick detour to make sure Amanda was alright but quickly remembered that she wouldn't have made it home if Amanda didn't. They were a package deal, and knowing her roommate, Manda was either also just waking up or still wrapped up in her blanket.

The ringing on the other end ceased as a second of noise followed a quiet, "hello."

"Hey," she smiled, hating the way she almost forgot that he couldn't see her. See the way her eyes lit up at hearing his voice that somehow sounded even deeper over the phone. It was something even more divine when he first woke up. "I'm sorry, I was—"

"Where the fuck were you, Karesse?"

Her smile instantly dropped. It was only then she realized that the harsh tone evoked with his question matched the almost clipped, tense way that he answered the phone. "I'm—I'm sorry?"

"I asked you a question." The frown on her face deepened with each confusing, acrid word that left his mouth. "Where the fuck were you?"

"I—" Stammering wasn't really a character trait of hers outside the first few minutes of meeting someone, and even then, it was more the quiet, short responses vs a clear indication of evident, palpable anxiety. But if there was a moment that called for such conduct, this was it. "I—I was out. It—it was Homecoming, and—"

"You were supposed to be there."

Somehow, the frown on her face deepened. "What?"

It wasn't like this irritated side of him was something she hadn't seen or experienced before. Months of them….whatever one would call it had allowed her to see that he could be….moody. Even more than that. He had a temper, for sure. She saw it firsthand every show she attended, but it was difficult to reconcile the man she saw on TV to the man she spent a good chunk of her time with. Even more, learning as much as she did and had about him, who he was as the Tribal Chief made all the sense.

Out there, he was who he had to be. With her, was who he wanted to be. They had their moments though, for sure. He could be a dick, and she wasn't for the temper tantrum.

Rarely, however, was this extent of that side of him directed towards her. Perhaps until now.

And especially this level of vitriol.

He sounded furious.

His level of anger, however, didn't make any sense to her.

Especially that last statement.

What was he—

And as if someone turned the light on in the room of realization, Karesse's stomach fucking dropped.

"Oh my God."

She ripped that phone away from her ear so quickly that it almost snatched her bonnet off in the process. Fingers hurriedly tapping at the screen to open up her calendar and click yesterday's date confirmed the worst.

Fuck.

She lifted the phone back to her ear, closed her eyes, and slammed her palm against her forehead. "Shit, Roman, I—I completely forgot."

Forgot felt like an understatement. Like the sort of thing one does when they miss an assignment or fail to pencil in an exam or added assignment to their planner. That was one thing.

Forgetting that he'd booked a flight and planned for her to attend his latest PLE was something entirely different.

And clearly, he felt the same.

"You forgot?" His tone, albeit understandable, made her wince. "How the fuck did you forget that?" Suddenly, the hangover wasn't looking so bad. Being on the receiving end of an upset Roman Reigns was the last thing on her itinerary for the day. "I told you about this weeks ago."

"I know. I know." She sighed and shook her head, suddenly wishing she'd have FaceTime'd him so he could see how truly apologetic she was and how bad she felt. "I guess, I just—I'm sorry. I'll be at the next one," she offered, hope revived. "I promise."

Even if she had to set reminders for every damn day leading up to said event, she would make sure this would never happen again.

"What makes you think you're invited?"

At that, her shoulders dropped.

Him making and organizing her flights to his shows or PLE's was a bit of a regular thing. Sometimes, it felt like she spent more time at the airport than her own apartment these days. Not that she ever complained. Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined being flew all over the country—and beyond—by a man like Roman.

And it wasn't even the underlying implication of his question that their arrangement was about to change that was shifting the tides away from regret. He had a right to be upset with her, sure. Time and money wasted would irritate anyone.

It was the level of his vitriol, however, that was starting to irritate her.

"Roman, I made a mistake, okay?" She scoffed. "I—"

"And who the fuck was that boy that you were all over?"

Another question that took her back for several and obvious reasons.

"What are you—"

But once more, another door opened as she once again pulled back her phone to navigate. This time to the app with the yellow icon that revealed several Snapchat stories she didn't even really remember uploading. Naturally, the sound was muted as it was being used for the phone call, but audio wasn't needed to understand what she was watching.

The motion of her ass bent over and twerking against a lap. Her being hoisted over a set of shoulders. The way she was laughing and giggling while posing with and against Christian and Amanda as well as a few other familiar faces. Several, as some of the clips surveyed the multitude of crowds she was immersed in. Truly playful, innocent moments that she could fully understand and see how he could see as otherwise.

She suddenly regretted showing him how Snapchat worked and making him an account. Remembered the way he grumbled about "never" using "that shit." But he'd made himself out to be a liar, because swiping up certainly revealed his username in the list of viewers.

Karesse closed her eyes once more.

This was a fucking mess.

Licking her lips, she blew out a breath and opted to switch to speaker, allowing the phone to settle into the sheets. "He—he's just a friend. Barely even that."

"I couldn't fucking tell."

 Again, his tone lapped at her waning contrition.

"We didn't do anything." And he, of all people, should know that. "And I was just—I was just having fun." A good ass time that suddenly felt like the worst night of her life given the verbal reprimand she was receiving from the least expected person ever.

"You had an obligation, Karesse." Something about his tone, disciplinary almost, struck something within her. "I don't understand—"

"Oh my God, it was one show. What's the big fucking deal?" She snapped, partially aware of where the sudden defensiveness was coming from but fully unwilling to acknowledge said source.

But if he was angry before, he was pissed following her matching his energy. His voice a borderline growl on the other end with an uncharacteristic undertone of desperation and anxiety. "The big fucking deal is that I needed you there!"

"I've gone to almost all of your shows since we met, Roman! Why did I need to be at this one?" If not actually all of them, and even though she didn't have the results of his match, she already knew it wasn't like he lost so what was his fucking malfunction?

Karesse threw her hands up, fully frustrated and flustered, hating the way her eyes were starting to water and her chest was tightening. "For fucks sake, I'm 21, and it was my last Homecoming. Sue me for being a stupid college kid who just wanted to let loose for one fucking night! What do you expect?"

The silence on the other end was both unexpected and unsettling, the latter magnified exponentially when his voice took a 180.

"You're right," he said. The almost calm intonation making her stomach churn and cuddle. He hadn't sounded like that since....since he found out she'd lied to him about her age. "What was I expecting?"

She closed her eyes. Fuck. "Roman—"

Her station eclipsed by the call dropping occurred in tandem with the collapse of something deep within her chest.

The fluorescent halls of The Bellagio are a blur.

This entire night has been a blur thanks to Eden.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Simply because Roman has never made you feel particularly welcome. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wanted to give him and Eden a chance. 

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

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

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

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

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

The threesome was her idea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“—We can wait.”

“—Lemme go get it.”

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

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

Lowly, “c’mere.”

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

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

“We can… wait.”

“You gon stare at me for ten minutes?”

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

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

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

“Why’re you so tense?”

“Huh?”

“You’re tense, Tati. As fuck.”

“Oh uh. Sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes. S…so good. Oh.”

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

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

It becomes biological. Primal. Prey and predator.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There she is. This is my pussy now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eden gets up, “actually, stop.”

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

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

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

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

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

Roman’s brow’s furrow, “Eden.”

“I said get up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His heart starts racing, “are you serious?”

“Don’t lie to me.”

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

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

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

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

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

.

Your head is throbbing.

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

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

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

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

And Roman.

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

Sent as SMS.

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

User not found.

January, 2024

There are a several other things, many other things, that Mariella would rather be doing right now. 

Skiing. Pilates. Unclogging her bathroom drain. Mowing the lawn of her massive ass estate, even though the one time she tried to surprise her dad on Father’s Day by doing the yard work, she ended up in a cast for six weeks.

Even that, however, would be preferred over this.

Anything would be preferred over this. 

He hasn’t looked up from the phone in his hand, though in his defense, neither has she. Not outside of the subtle glances here and there she’s snuck in his direction since they climbed into the back of the SUV. Glances that never last long and only seem to further irritate her. Make her wish she’d sat in the middle row instead. The empty seat and space between them may mimic more than just the literal, but it’s not enough. 

Them being hundreds of thousands miles apart from one another that was the amount of distance between them while she was on tour….that….that was enough.

But, that was then, and this is now. And now is not only award season for her but Mania season for him. 

It’s time to emphasize the Academy Award winning actress in her Wikipedia article. 

Too bad no one can ever know the best and most awarded performance of her life was not as Ally Bell in A Star Is Born.

It’s as Mariella Anoa’i. 

Unlocking her phone and tapping her foot against the floor of the SUV, she turns her head and looks out the window, reaching to lower it, hopeful that the outside breeze will flow in and out some of the tension that follows whenever he’s around.

More specifically, when he’s around and they’re alone. 

“Don’t open it.”

Mari turns to look at her husband and immediately regrets it, because while her eyes roam over him—the fitted, short sleeved back dress shirt, dark shorts, and Nike sneakers far too simple of a combination to look that good—his eyes remain lowered. Still focused on the phone in his hand.

Just like that, uncomfortable feelings of lust are shoved to the side and replaced with irritation at his interjection but also the fact that he can’t even be bothered to look at her.

What an asshole.

“Why?” 

Another tier of frustration is reached when he continues to type away on the iPhone Max that looks like a fucking mini in his big ass hands. Still with no eye contact.

“Your hair is down,” he answers. “The wind will fuck with it, and then you’ll be irritated because it’s messed up.”

Mari isn’t sure what steals the honor of first place in the annoyance category. The fact that he’s still focused on that damn phone, that he’s trying to tell her what to do, or that he’s right. 

Perhaps it’s all three. 

Regardless, the winner doesn’t matter when all three are rewarded with the same prize. “I think I’ll be fine.” 

Except, it’s her dismissal that finally grants her eye contact that, at this point, she couldn’t give two shits about.

It’s always after the fact with him…

“I’m serious.” 

“So am I.” 

“I don’t care.”

“Fucking hell, Mariella.” Index finger tapping against the button, she watches the way his mouth shifts into a frown, phone once in his lap now on the empty seat between them. “Why do you always have to be so goddamn difficult?”

“I’m difficult?” At that, the desire to lower the window is a null and void point. Nothing is capable of easing or cutting this tension that’s only about to grow as they approach yet another argument. It’s their third of the day. Maybe even forth. “I know this might be a shocker to you, what with your ego being almost as big as your fucking head, but difficult people don’t agree to attend promotional events with their spouses to benefit their career—”

“Me?” He points to himself, Mariella unable to ignore whatever ticks in her stomach at the sight of the black band on his wedding finger. A finger that was empty this morning as they maneuvered around each other in the kitchen. Half sleep, trying to brew some coffee to help her wakeup while he mixed up his protein drink, towel over his shoulder after finishing up a workout. “You really gon’ sit there and act like this don’t benefit you just as much as it benefits me?” He shakes his head, grabbing his phone once more. “You sound fucking stupid right now.”

It takes her back for a moment. Mariella should be used to this. Used to this mean, cruel side of him. It’s been the norm for almost two years now, but for some reason, it’s as if she’s taken back to a few years prior. Where he’d act like he was incapable of keeping his hands off of her, her straddling his lap, giggling into his mouth and playfully warning him not to mess up her makeup. Simpler times. 

Happier times.

But, those are no more. It doesn’t make sense to dwell on what will never be the same again. “Excuse me?” She’s half tempted to snatch that phone out of his hand but ultimately decides not to. 

She doesn’t want to risk seeing what’s on it. 

Knowing is one thing. Seeing is another. 

Been there. Done that.

Never again. 

“I’m stupid?” 

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s not what I said.”

Her jaw drops. He can’t seriously think he can gaslight her like this, can he? “That’s exactly what you said—”

“God, you literally never listen—”

“I don’t have to listen to you, Joe—”

“No, you don’t want to listen. That’s the problem. That’s always been the fucking—”

“Umm—”

It’s the introduction of a new voice, one not belonging to Mariella or Joe that interrupts their heated argument and brings them both to a state of realization and remembrance. 

Realizing that they’ve clearly arrived at their destination as the vehicle is stilled and remembering that it’s not just the two of them but the driver that makes nervous eye contact through the rearview mirror. 

Mariella looks away and closes her eyes. 

Thank God for the automatic NDA’s signed by most drivers contracted through either her team or Joe’s. Regardless, she hates that once again he got under her skin just enough to get her out of character. And perhaps the same can be said for him. 

Except, once more, a masterful performance is put on the minute the door is opened and Joe offers his hand for his wife to climb out after him. Mari whips out that million dollar smile and waves at the paparazzi who snap photos and bombard the famous duo with question after question, most of which she doesn’t pay attention to. Just how she doesn’t pay attention to the way Joe brushes his thumb over her knuckles, like he always did—or does—when they’re out in public. Primarily walking red carpets. Back during the early stages of her career when watching award shows on their crappy 30 inch television in an even crappier apartment turned into her not only attending but sometimes performing at said award shows. 

There was always a bit of anxiety that made her nervous and had her reaching for clinical strength deodorant to help with the extra sweating that always accompanied her anxiety. But, it was always helped by when and if her husband could attend with her. The brush a gentle reminder that she had this. That he was here.

And, that he wasn’t going anywhere.

Again, that pitted feeling in the base of her stomach. 

God, how things have changed. 

——————

It’s a brand event. Hosted by Fanatics and Omega in early promotion and buildup for WrestleMania in a couple months. For Joe, as she stated, but also, like he stated, for herself, as it’s award season, and she she currently leads the nominations in most major categories, including the Grammys. 

Guided towards a room where he’s shown the items they’d picked out not only for him but her as well. Watches that cost more than some make in a year before taxes shown to the power couple as she playfully interacts with the staff and makes her usual joking comment or two, ensuring to feign the role exactly as she’s rehearsed and done over the past few years now. That’s not the hardest part though. The hardest part always comes in the form of the photography and video aspect. When a camera is placed in front of them either for photoshoot purposes or promotional videos.

Today is both. 

She adjusts her strapless top at least once or twice, D’s sitting nice and cleavage perked up, the black stretch pants holding in her tummy just enough while still accentuating the deep curve of her ass. Finished off with some accessors and black heels, white polish on her toes the perfect contrast to her warm brown complexion. The perfect not too much but just enough outfit for the occasion. Like most shoots, their poses are directed though most stem from muscle memory and having done so ten million times over. 

Her holding and hugging him, hopping on his back, his arms around her, holding her from the back. The hand on her ass and playful grope of her breast. The more seductive and steamy photos. Mari is used to it all.

But, truth be told—not that she would admit it to her narcissist of a husband—neither of them really need to do much promotion at all. They’ve both reached a point in their careers where less is just as much as more. An interview and appearance here and there along with social media posts would be just as good. 

It’s something that she plans to bring up sooner rather than later, because though she plays her role well, occasional glances and touches between the two of them, like everything is fine when everything is wrong, it’s a miserable experience. Mariella has always been an honest, transparent person. What you see is what you get, so to sit here and laugh and smile like the supportive, loving wife that everyone thinks she is….it’s uncomfortable, to say the least.

And, she’d bet the man sitting beside her feels the same. 

Naturally, as it’s a sports related event, many of the questions are directed towards Joe, as he easily slips in and out of character depending on what’s being asked. It used to impress her. How he maneuvered the two sides of him with ease. Roman and Joe.

Now….now they just feel one and the same.

Roman is who he’s always been. 

Joe is just who he pretended to be.

At least, as it pertained to their marriage. Their entire relationship, possibly. 

“Now, of course, it would be remiss of me to not congratulate you on your historic nine nominations at the Grammy’s this year, Mari.” It’s the interviewers redirection towards Mariella that allows her to widen her smile and clap happily, the latter less performative and more of her actual reaction. It still blows her mind to think that she is the most nominated artist this year, including the coveted record, song, and album of the year categories. “Has it set in yet?”

She has to think about it. “Yes and no. I mean, I was still on tour at the time when they were announced, so I was literally about to go on stage and was so focused on the show that I don’t think I gave myself the time to really sit on it. And, I just got back home a few days ago, so…I don’t know.” She sighs dramatically, giggling and shrugging. “I’m very honored and blessed though. Immensely grateful, too.”

For her fans, especially. She couldn’t have asked for a better fan base. They support her in any and all the ways, and it’s played such a massive role in her success.

“That’s so awesome” Erin, the interviewer, nods, green eyes twinkling behind her glasses. “And, of course, another big congrats on the tour. The second highest grossing tour of all time for a female artist .” Mari is eternally grateful Erin doesn’t bring up the lady who holds the number one spot. She’s already faking the shit with her husband; she doesn’t feel like doing it for the sake of not wanting to deal with the psychotic swifties. “Seriously, you have just been killing it the past few years.” Mari readies to thank her for the massive compliment, a true, genuine gesture when Erin’s eyes flicker to Joe. “You must be insanely proud of her.” 

How she manages to remain in “character” is a miracle to Mari. She shouldn’t be surprised. It’s a natural, expected follow-up considering the public image regarding her marriage, but still, there’s something moderately uncomfortable that has her shift in her seat, playing it off as she turns to look at him.

The discomfort shifts to shock though as Joe answers with natural ease. “For sure. I’ve always been proud of her, and I always will be.” A beat. “But, none of it’s a surprise. Mariella is single handedly the most talented, creative person I’ve ever met. There’s no one like her, and there never will be another after her.” 

If not for the bright lights, cameras, and woman across from them, Mari is certain that she’d allow her outward reaction to be mirrored by what brews within. The flutters in her stomach and tightening in her chest not from stress or irritation but something genuine and authentic. The lingering feelings hidden underneath layers of hurt and anger that always stir just ever so slightly whenever they have to “fake” it. 

Because, truth be told, it’s not 100% faking. 

To some extent, the way she leans over, holding his arm, head laid against his shoulder and the brush of his lips atop her head feels a hell of a lot more real than anything she’s felt with him in some time. 

——————

Joe’s words stick with her like a melody she can’t get out of her head. Except, unlike a simple trip to the recording studio, either the one in their home or fifteen minutes away, the solution is not an easy one. Mari isn’t even really sure what a solution would look like.

She can’t talk to him.

She doesn’t even know what the hell she would say. Or, rather, she’s not able to bring herself to admit what she should say.

“You saying that about me makes me wonder if you actually still feel that way or if it was just another masterful performance.”

Because Joe has said as such to her before. Over and over again. Even before she finally “made it big.” Once upon a time, he was her biggest fan, and she, his. But, that feels so long ago. Like a lifetime ago. Who they were then is vastly different from who they are now.

But, it’s moments like this, experiences like this, that make her wonder. Wonder if the past is not as inaccessible as she often believes.

The fact that “acting” like she’s still madly and stupidly in love with him doesn’t always feel like a performance in as much as it feels like attempts to recreate.

To revive.

It’s these thoughts and a million and one more that result in her doing what, to be fair, Mari has always done best. 

Finding herself in a situation that only she could get into.

How exactly it happens is a mystery in and of itself. One minute she’s walking out the kitchen with a bowl full of goldfish in her hand, and the next she sees herself about to fall, feels the pending fall, and makes a last attempt effort to reach for a lifeline. Grabs for the back of the stool by the island only for it to accompany her on the descent down. 

She curses loudly, palms down on the hardwood flooring, goldfish crunched and smashed under the weight of her. The sight of the barstool across her legs that accounts for the pain shooting up her lower half.

“How the hell—” She turns to look over her shoulder, Joe standing there with his hands on his hips. Like herself, he’s changed out of his clothes and into some basketball shorts and a white t-shirt. His hair is down and brushes against the sides of his face as he shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Always something with your ass.”

His last statement, however, makes her groan and huff. “I’m fine.” Except, the minute she attempts to get up, completely forgetting the barstool across her legs, she’s proven wrong. “Okay, maybe I'm not.”

Joe is already three steps ahead of her—literally and figuratively. He places the barstool back upright and offers his hand to help her to her feet, which she ignores only to end up braced against him when she almost tumbles while trying to stand up.

“Stubborn ass,” he murmurs, but she’s too distracted by the feel of his hard chest under her palms and how good he smells. Neither of which should really faze her, because the man has always been fine as hell, and he always smells good. 

But, it’s being in this close proximity again….especially for reasons not related to public obligation. 

A loud gasp leaves her mouth when he lifts her up and places her on the island, scooting her back just enough so he can examine her legs. That shift allowing her to realize just why he turns away almost immediately and opens the cabinet under the double sinks.

There’s a nasty cut on her left shin, most likely sustained from either the metal legs of the barstool or, hell, maybe even the damn goldfish. It wouldn’t be far fetched.

Injuries always seem to find her one way or another.

Joe returns, first aid kit open on the island beside her as he pulls out the required items. 

The silence bothers her, a low, “I’m fine” the only thing she can say as he darts his gaze to her, looking at her through those long eyelashes of his.

He gestures down to her leg. “This look fine to you?”

“I’ve had worse.”

He chuckles. “You’re not wrong about that.” Mari’s eyes remain on him, studying the outline of his broad shoulders and back as he turns to wet the cloth with warm water. While he’s lost some weight and leaned out over the past two years, it hasn’t changed a damn thing about how big he is. In some ways, he seems and feels even bigger. 

Just as fine, too.

Actually, that’s a lie, and she realizes it when he turns back around to finish cleaning up her wound. Mari studies the grays spread throughout his beard and mustache, some silky white strings mingled in his locs, the fine lines in his face and light bags under his eyes. Joe will be turning forty this year, and while some level of aging is evident in his changed appearance, it’s also somehow made him look even better.

He’s even finer than he was when they were younger. 

And, that’s saying something. 

“Do I even wanna know how this happened?” 

She’s grateful for his question, because it redirects her to the more important thing at hand, like pushing back some of her hair behind her ear and being obtuse.

“I plead the fifth.”

“So, you tripped.”

“Allegedly.”

Once more, he gestures to the proof before them. “This don’t look very alleged to me.”

“Well, you don’t have your glasses on and you’re old now so your two cents is invalid anyway.”

“Well, you’re four years younger than me and you don’t even wear glasses yet your ass still somehow tripped over air, so what’s your excuse?”

Mari gasps loudly and leans forward to shove on his shoulder. “Shut up, old man.” 

It’s not missed upon her the way the corners of his mouth lift into a small, amused smile that mirrors the one on her own face. 

Both remain as he gently taps on her calf. “Can you roll your ankle for me?” She does as he asks, the wince on her face giving away the discomfort. “Hurt?”

She nods. “But, not sprained or broken hurt.” It’s a distinction she knows well, as she’s had both happen before. More than once, actually. “Do you…” Her smile widens as she shakes her head. “Do you remember the first time I broke my ankle?”

Joe’s eyes squint as if his mind is working overtime to recall what she’s referring to, only for him to roll his eyes and also shake his head. “It was one of the fifteen different times you broke down on the side of the road because you ran out of gas.”

“Okay, in my defense, how was I supposed to know that gas thingy—”

“The fuel range?”

“That liar.” She glares, recalling the way it betrayed her, making her think she could make it home and just get gas the next day. The deception. “But, yeah, and all I was trying to do was help you out—”

He cuts her off, pointing out what she can still hear him saying that warm summer day. “you would have helped me out by staying your ass in the car like I told you to.” 

Joe had been clear in his instructions. Told her to wait in the car while he gave her a jump. But, she’d felt bad calling him. He and BJ just got back home for summer break the night prior, and he had to have been exhausted. Mari felt terrible about him having to come out so late to meet and save her. She just wanted to help but somehow tripped over something, faceplanted on the ground, and spent the rest of the evening in the ER with what was later diagnosed as a broken ankle. 

“Sorry for trying to be helpful.”

Ignoring the petulant pout on her face, he steps back and reaches for her. “Come on.”

Mari obliges and slides to the edges off the counter until she’s standing on her feet. But, once again, she moves too fast.

“Whoa.” His hands are on her hips, hers back on his chest, her fingers slowly raking at his shirt as he keeps her upright. “But, you’re fine, right?”

“Shut up,” she repeats, lightly shoving him away, but he doesn’t budge. What does slip though is the small smile on his face. It slips into something….something else. 

She does the same. Mari is fully aware of the way his fingers lightly dig into her skin through her shorts as well as how his eyes bounce back and forth from her eyes to her mouth. 

Maybe it’s the lingering emotions from their interview from earlier. Maybe it’s the lingering emotions and tension that brews whenever they’re around one another. What lies beneath thick layers of hurt and betrayal. Or, maybe a combination of everything. Whatever the case and cause, she just knows it has to be that which doesn’t cause her to pull away when he kisses her. 

It makes her kiss him back. 

Makes her wrap her arms around his neck as he roams his hands to her backside, squeezing her ass at the same time he runs his tongue over her bottom lip before using it to part her lips. She moans into his mouth, at the taste of him—clean and spearmint—as her hands move to the sides of his neck, his hair grazing the back of her hands. Her thumb brushing over the top of his earlobe the thing that earns her a groan as he hikes her up on his waist and props her back onto the island. 

Standing between her spread thighs, he tugs her to the edge, Mari gently biting down on his bottom lip. Her eyes flutter as he breaks their kiss only to drag his mouth along the perimeter of her jawline before shifting once more to her neck. She grasps at his biceps and locks her ankles just below his ass as he greedily sucks that sensitive spot. 

“Joe…”

Her body is on fire, her stomach is in all sorts of knots, and the combination of his hands continuing to feel all over her as his teeth lightly graze against her skin has her several shades of discombobulated. Especially when his left hand moves between her thighs, past her shorts and underwear, fingertips collecting the wetness she can feel soaking her underwear. 

“Fuck, Ri.” 

As he enters one finger and she grips his shoulders, hissing at the intrusion and slow pump, she tries to remember. Tries to remember the last time he’s called her that. 

Called her Ri.

It’s been so long. 

Too long, perhaps.

But, then the memory returns of that last time and just why it’s that. 

The last time.

Not the actual occurrence, the last time she was intimate with her husband—or anyone for that matter—not even the day where it all came to a head and words were spoken, on both sides, that can never be taken back.

No….

No, she remembers that day. 

That night.

The one she’ll never forget as long as she lives. 

Tremors wrecked her entire body. Everything around was a haze, nothing but thick, dense, indistinguishable clouds of blurred surroundings. The smell was overwhelming, the feel of it all drenching and suffocating. She couldn’t breathe properly or think straight. It took everything in her to do it, to power through it all, to overcome what felt like was going to overwhelm her. 

In many ways, it did.

A sob rose from the back of her throat as she gathered her bearings just enough to send a simple message. The only word she could bring herself to send. 

Help

Mariella gasps loudly, the memory shaking her to her core and snapping her back to reality. She uses all of her strength to shove him away, Joe’s confused gaze making his swollen lips drop down into a frown. 

Hand over her heart, she ran her free hand through her hair, the heat suddenly jumping 100 degrees higher for completely different reasons. Her distress must be written all over her face as he steps forward. 

“Ri—”

“No!” She shouts, instinctively closing her legs and eyes. A deep shaky breath as she recalls what brought them to this very moment. Not this morning. Not reflections on years prior. But, everything. It’s what makes her mouth shift into a deep scowl, tears burning her vision, her hand dropping from her chest, knuckles against the cool granite. “You want to fuck someone? Go fuck them.”

Joe looks at her, and she sees it. Sees the flash in his eyes. An emotion that looks suspiciously close to hurt. “You still….” But, just as soon as it’s there, it’s gone. Replaced with that infamous sneer and shift of his jaw. Like he’s about to say something hurtful and reckless. Because that is who he is. “Just forget it.” 

He shakes his head and turns to leave the kitchen, Mariella jumping when the slam of one of the doors—probably to his office—travels from down the hall. She takes another breath, grateful and thankful, in a strange sort of way, that she remembered.

Remembered that no matter what fond memory is invoked or brief shared encounter that’s reminiscent of the time before—it’s just that. The time before.

There is no before.

There’s just now.

The anger in his voice and hurt written all over his face. The way he turned away and wouldn’t even look at her as he gathered his items, each forceful grab accompanied by hurtful, cruel statements he left no room for her to dispute.

“It’s always fucking something with you.”

“What was the point of you even coming then?”

“I don't have to put up with this shit, Shayera.”

“If I want to get pussy from someone and then dip, I can do that with any woman. Why even bother with this shit? With you?"

Shayera has to blink back her tears as she carries her suitcase up the steps, anxiety growing with each heavy footstep.

She’s known Roman long enough to know that he often has no filter or regard for anything or anyone when he’s upset, and nothing makes him more upset than that conversation. Perhaps she should be angry with him. She was, to a certain extent, but unlike her lover, Shayera has never been the type to return fire with fire.

No, her father taught her from a very young age that pouring gasoline on an already blazing inferno does nothing more than exacerbate. The best route is always through. Through the flames and smoke, on the other side of it all, was the way to go. It’s advice she’s always applied and utilized in any way that she can.

Especially in her relationship.

The cool metal of the key in hand is a welcomed, different sensation than the bundle of nerves twirling in the pit of her stomach. Despite typing out several different times what exactly she plans to say, Shayera knows herself well enough that when it comes to him, plans only go so far. Great in theory and preparation but are rarely ever implemented in real time. She gets around him, and everything is thrown out of the window. He’s the source of discombobulation and makes her brain—and heart—feel fuzzy.

It’s both frustrating and welcomed. Frustrating because even after all this time, she hasn’t found a way to work through it. Welcomed because….because a part of her doesn’t want to work through it. Things are just…..easy with Roman. Maybe not in situations like now. Where he’s so upset with her that texts and calls go unanswered for weeks at a time. But when they’re good, they’re so so good. No one has ever made her feel what Roman does. Nor has she ever cared for a man as much as she cares for Roman.

Has loved a man as much as she loves Roman.

Thoughts and sentiments that ebb and flow as she uses the key to welcome herself in. Her nose immediately crinkles at the aroma that greets her. Her smile revived. Butterscotch and caramel. A turn of her head to the side as she hits the switch to light up the foyer, a glance at the plug-in under and in between the mahogany legs of the entryway table. The scent she’d selected when they were laid up in bed, him in between her legs as he tasked her with compiling a list of items needed for his new home.

Their home, as he called it. 

But once again, another intrusive, unwanted memory. The way he ran his hands through his hair as she stood across from him in the kitchen of his old penthouse while she worked to pack up the last of his dishes. His frustration towards her refusal to sign her name on the deed. To officially and legally make it their home. The same argument with a different coat, but the core remained the same.

The same reason for her unannounced visit. Shayera walks over to place her purse on the table and tuck her suitcase right up beside it. She can grab it later. But first—

“What are you doing here?”

She jumps and immediately spins around. Her eyes widen and instantly soften. Roman stands in the middle of the staircase. The low lighting is a backdrop behind his large body, strong muscles outlined almost in a way that would draw her focus to his chiseled, shirtless frame and the way his dark sweats hang low and emphasize the noticeable outline of his dick print but not for one thing. 

One large, hideous thing.

“Oh my God.”

Shayera’s body is an autonomous being as she works quickly to close the distance between them. Her frown deeper than it’s been since the moment he walked out the hotel with a large, heavy slam of the door that she laid in bed awake all night praying would open again at one point. 

That she’d wake up the next morning to the feel of a strong set of arms holding her tight and soft snoring in her ear.

It never happened. 

The minute she’s close enough, Shayera extends her hand, fingers gingerly and slowly tracing over the large, jagged outline of various shades of dark purple, black, and specks of red that take up the almost entirely of his right pec.

She knew it was bad. Winced when she read an article saying he’d sustained an injury during a segment that reportedly been exacerbated during a weightlifting session prior to a match. Gasped aloud when she pulled up the stream and saw him walk out with the grotesque injury that stares back at her now.

She’d been furious to see him defy what she knows had to have been advised against by his doctors, but if Roman is anything, it’s stubborn to a fault. 

It’s why he’d continued to ignore her outreach attempts that doubled in frequency and number after the fact. A torn right pectoral tendon. That’s what she’d read in an article that reported he’d be out for two weeks, at max. Again, another timeline that reeked of being AMA. 

Hence why Shayera knew she had to take this opportunity to see him. She needed to see him. Outside of missing him like crazy, she’s been worried about him even more. 

And seeing it in person? Yeah. A part of her is wishing she’d booked that flight a hell of a lot sooner, even if Roman’s scowl indicates she shouldn’t have booked it all.

“Roman, why would you still f—”

“What are you doing here, Shayera?” 

The repeat of his initial question with an added layer of irritation as he jerks away from her is discouraging, but it’s not unsurprising. The last thing she expected was for him to welcome her with open arms. 

She lifts her head, keeping her voice even. “You know why I’m here.”

Something flashes in his eyes following her response. He flicks his gaze to the side as her eyes focus on the sparse gray hairs in his beard that’s slightly outgrown. Longer and more unkempt than his usual preference. “No cameras. Right? No chance of you being seen with the likes of me. Just how you like it.”

Her chest tightens and her brows shift inward. “Don’t say that. I don—”

“Shay—”

“You’re not the only one who has the right to be upset, you know.” She challenges, arms crossed in an attempt to keep her hand from lifting to graze her palm over his chest again. She’d bet any money he hasn’t been 100% compliant with whatever medical guidance has been recommended or instructed. “I understand your frustration, but you saying hurtful shit to me when you’re upset is getting real old, Roman.” This part of her typed out points to address wasn’t intended to be hit on until a little later, but she also wasn’t expecting Roman to be waiting for her at the door.

Literally.

“You’re damn near a decade older than me, but you act like a child and ice me out instead of talking to me like an adult—”

“If you’re just going to regurgitate everything you said in your texts, you could have just sent that shit—”

“I wasn’t done talking.” A beat. “Don’t interrupt me.” 

Another flash in his eyes as she notices his gaze dips to her chest, the zipper sitting right under the swell of her breast that are pushed up and together from her bra. A perhaps intentional wardrobe selection. 

Shayera steps closer, ignoring her previous refusal to follow through on burning urges. She reaches up, one hand on his cheek, the other on his chest. Over his heart. “Roman, I love you. You know I love you, and I know you love me, and I’m sorry….” She licks her lips, eyes temporarily dropping to the floor. “I’m sorry that we have to be like this. I know…I know it can’t be a forever thing, and it won’t. I promise.” Her gaze lifts just in time to see the way his jaw ticks, scowl gradually melting away with each genuine word and expression of vulnerability. “I’m going to figure this out. I will. I just….I need more time, Roman….please.”

It’s a big ask. She knows this. Most men would have been dipped. Would have said that navigating such a dynamic—secretly dating a politician's daughter with a squeaky clean image for over two years now—was insane.

And it is.

But Roman is not most men.

And it’s one of the reasons she loves him so much.

She’s not sure what he’s going to say. For as well as she knows the man before her, there are times even she can’t predict his next move. 

Then again, sometimes neither can he.

But there’s no disputing the way her stomach blooms with butterflies at his low, gruff but audible question. His arm snaking around her body, making her other hand lift to his chest. 

“How long are you here for?”

Shayera smiles.

Licks her bottom lip and looks down, intentional with the slow movement of her zipper in a downward motion. Fully aware of his eyes remaining glued to her chest as she shrugs the hoodie off, revealing her black, skin tight, one piece body suit. The kind she’s also fully aware he loves to see her in. “Long enough to take care of you.” Shayera leans up on her toes, locking her wrists behind his neck. Her eyes lift to his as she bats her long eyelashes. “To acknowledge you.” 

“Mmmm, shit, Roman.”

Shayera’s eyes are clamped shut. Her hands are locked into his wet hair that’s tangled around her fingers. Water rains down on both of them, soaking both himself and her, including the sew in that she just got touched up last week. But it’s an insignificant sacrifice in the grand scheme of things. A small price to pay for the pleasure that wrecks her body.

Her back pressed into the cool tile, soft breast squeezed against his strong chest, his hands digging into her hips and keeping her right where he wants her. 

“You like that, don’t you?” His gruff voice sounds in her ear as the sounds of water slapping against the floor battle against the sound of her bouncing off his dick. “Like the way daddy fucks this tight ass pussy?”

Shayera nods with desperate fervor, as if he can see it. As if he’s able to see that she doesn’t just like it. She fucking loves it.

To say that he’s freaked her out would be an understatement. Before Roman, sex was just a thing. Fine but nothing to be overly obsessed with and over.

But that was then. This is now, and nothing feels better than that big ass dick of his rocking in and out of her. Jutting her body up and down the wall as they fuck in the shower.

How they ended up here, she hasn’t a clue. And truth be told, he should not be hoisting her up like he is. Unnecessary pressure and strain on an injury that’s most likely not even close to being fully healed. And if it was, it sure ain’t anymore. 

Shayera gasps loudly when Roman lifts his left hand to force her head back, her mouth dropping and eyes fluttering just enough to see his smug expression. Strands of his dark hair glued against his cheeks and forehead, water droplet swimming down his strong face and settling in his beard. If she looks close enough, she can detect the remnants of her own juices from when he bent her over the bathroom counter and ate her out from behind. 

“Talk to me, Shay.” He demands, a groan escaping her mouth when he intensifies his thrusts, slamming into her. Nothing has ever hurt so good. “Tell me how good your Tribal Chief making you feel, princess.”

She moans, nodding and whimpering when he drops his hand to support with her with both, her fingers raking up and down his strong arms. She’ll never get over just how fucking big he is. In all the ways. “So good, daddy. You make—fuck—you make me feel so good.”

“Yeah?” He pants, eyes still focused on her. “You love me, baby girl?”

Another desperate, heartfelt nod and proclamation of adoration. “I l—love you s—s—o much.”

Roman’s full, soft lips trail along her jaw, wet kisses eventually leading to their lips locking. Her hands once again intertwined in his loose tresses, his tongue thrusted in her mouth that she moans into when he grinds his pelvis against hers, making him bottom out. Her slick, wet pussy walls squelching and contracting around the sheer size and girth of him. No matter how many times they fuck, she’ll never get over nor fully understand how she manages to take it all.

But she does. 

Every single time. 

She’s left wanting more, however, when Roman abruptly pulls away. Her eyes shooting open just in time as he manages to lower her to the ground, her knees buckling right as he pulls out of her, making her gasp and moan.

“Ro—”

“Shhh.” He hushes her, leaning over and caressing the back of her head. She’s certain she must look a fucking mess. Lips swollen and makeup smeared long before they made their way into the shower. From when he fucked her face as they stood on the stairway. The water just added another level of disarray. But it doesn’t stop the way he’s staring down at her with awe, with the same amount of undeniable love and gratitude that she feels towards and about him in all the ways. When it’s just the two of them, nothing else matters and no one else exists. With him, she’s whole. 

Complete.

Two halves that can only make a whole when together. 

He glides his finger over her bottom lip, Shayera fighting the urge to reach for his hot, turgid dick digging into her stomach. Inside her. She needs him inside her. “You know your Tribal Chief loves you, right?”

Her stomach tightens as he dips his head, her eyes fluttering yet again when he kisses the swell of her breast, thick tongue circling her peppered nipple. “Y—yes.” Shayera gasps when he bites down on her breast, evoking a painful and pleasurable sensation that makes her pussy throb and flutter. 

“Yes, what?”

She swallows. “Yes, my Tribal Chief.” 

“Good.” Another abrupt switch and change when Roman stands up and forces her against the wall. Her hands plant against the wet tile as she wiggles her ass back against him, feeling him run his thick, cum smeared and glistening dick up and in between her ass cheeks. “Cause I’m about to fuck you like I don’t.” 

Lips curved into a small smile that disappears only when he yanks her head back at the same time he nudges his dickhead between her tight pussy lips, stretching her wide and open, inch by inch, until he bottoms out once more.