𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒𑁤 with a house full of children, all of whom are still in single digits, finding one on one time can be a challenge for roman and solana. with the younger kids down for naps and the eldest keeping themselves occupied, mom and dad sneak away for some adult only time.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𑁤 smut. dirty talk. unprotected sex. established, married couple. age gap (10yrs). roman stressed tf out.
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒𑁤 four thousand and some change (4k+)
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𑁤 roman reigns x black!oc
𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𑁤 graphic and dividers by me.
𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𑁤 we talked about this idea forever ago, and i finally started it a few weeks ago. was definitely a wild ride to write.
Solana’s glazed eyes roll back and her stomach caves inward as she arches her back off the mattress. Her fingers dig into said mattress, fisting the sheets with an unforgiving grip that’s similair to the unforgiving waves of pleasure rolling throughout her entire body.
“Roman.”
His name falling from his wife’s parted lips force Roman to rip his enchanted gaze from the motion of her big, soft breasts jutting back and forth from the intensity of his thrust to the way she writhes in visible, obvious pleasure on the bed underneath him.
It makes his dick twitch, thick pink tongue dipping from his mouth and running over his bottom lip. Makes his next thrust hit harder and dig deeper. A goal achieved when the sweet, beautiful sound of her whimpers intensify. Pleasing a woman sexually has never really been an issue for Roman. Nothing he worried about because countless experience and ratings of 10/10 across the board all but prevented any sort of insecurity in that area.
In almost all areas of his life.
But Solana has always been the exception.
From the moment she sat on his lap in that restaurant what feels like a century ago, pressed her lips together, pretty eyes dipping as she powered through nerves to issue her request, she’s been his priority.
Her pleasure has been her priority. He’s only ever wanted to make her feel good.
Most especially in the bedroom.
With everything she’s been through, she deserves that and everything more.
So to see her eyes clench shut, to feel her slick walls gripping his dick, and to watch the way she writhes with an insatiable hunger, it’s nothing short of fuel. A drug he can’t get enough of and would gladly overdose on if it means he can spend the rest of his life being with her like this.
Being in her like this.
His eyes flick down to where their bodies connect, his breath catching as the glimpse of his dick coated white, her cream gushing and dripping from her tight ass pussy. “Shit, baby,” he groans. “You creaming all over me.” He’s rewarded with another moan that brings about a smug smirk. “C’mon, sweetheart. You know I like words.”
She groans through a closed mouth, the scowl on her face making his smirk deepen. It’s seeing the way she shifts her hands to her chest, the arch in her back depending as her hands graze over and gently squeeze her breast, however, that make his breath hitch.
Triggers an idea.
“But you know what I like more?” Roman smooths his hands up and down her hips as her eyes flutter open, reflecting a haze of lust. She’s visibly dazed, mouth partially ajar, and dark eyebrows caving inward.
“Ro—”
His name abruptly lost in the quick motion of him switching their positions. It’s suddenly Roman whose back is against their soft, dark sheets and the sight of his wife upward instead of downward. He glides his hand to the back of her ass, as her own plant on his chest. Not once does his dick slip out, instead still seated inside her warmth. Her eyes latch onto his. “Papi watching his pretty girl on top.”
Solana’s swollen lips—still puffy from the way they made out fiercely during foreplay that only lasted a couple of minutes before her palm was smeared with his cum as she stroked his dick to life—lift into a small smile.
She says something in Spanish as he glides his hands to the front of her, traveling up and over the folds of her stomach, her head nodding back when she starts to grind on top of him.
His pupils dilate and his jaw clenches at the feel of her nails pressing into his abs and then his own hands when she travels the length of his long arms and cages his palms against her heavy breasts. Roman finds it impossible to not buck his hips to fuck up into her, especially when the first assisted thrust makes her mouth drop open and her eyes flutter once more.
It’s also impossible to look away from her, for him to not soak in the sight that can cure and heal him on even the roughest of days.
Like those days, more often than not, that he still can’t comprehend just how the hell they ended up with seven children in under eight years. Two sets of twins, at that. With several of said kids being only a year and some change apart in age. For a man a few years shy of fifty, even with his wife being a decade younger than him, it blows his fucking mind.
But then she does that thing she does. Like she’s doing now. Where she either willingly slides herself on top of his dick or allows him to position her to where she should never leave. Moves and gyrates sensually and slowly, sometimes leaning back just enough so his eyes travel up the slope of her thick ass body and grant him the perfect view of her glistening, fat pussy lips swallowing and dripping over his big dick while she bounces up and down. Spelling her name and claiming what will always be hers.
And he gets it.
Understands fully how and why they ended up with seven kids.
Solana’s moans and whimpers amplify as her intensify subsides just enough to let him know she’s close. He can feel it in the way her pussy is clamping and fluttering around him. The bed rocks and trembles under the intensity of their sweet, sensual, steamy lovemaking. A silent witness to the most carnal of acts over the years.
“You gon’ come for me, pretty girl?” He’s rewarded with an enthusiastic nod of her head as he gently squeezes her big ass titties, weighing heavy in his palms despite her own braced on his thighs as she continues to ride him. “Gon’ let papi fill—”
“Mommy. Daddy. We’re bored. Can you play—”
The intensity of the scream of horror that erupts from Solana’s mouth is matched only by the way she quickly scrambles to move off of Roman who hisses a quiet, “shit” that’s easily drowned under the sound of the additional set of screams. Screams from the faces of their three oldest children who stand in the doorway with ajar mouths.
Lina, Leya, and Tama. Eyes as wide as saucers. Lina being the one to shove her siblings out of the way as they slam the door shut.
The minute it’s closed, however, the panic doesn’t end.
It only begins.
“Roman!” She shouts from the side of the bed, face flustered, sheet covering her body sweaty body. “I thought I told you to lock the door!”
“I did!” He shouts, running a hand through his hair, damp at the roots from his exertion. “That damn Lina must have picked the fucking lock.”
“Oh my God,” she breathes, one hand over her mouth. “That didn’t just happen." He can't tell if she's talking to him, herself, or them both. Though, in all honestly, it doesn't make much of a difference. They didn’t just walk in on us having sex.”
“Pretty sure they did,” he mutters, falling back on the bed, eyes shut. His head is suddenly pounding and the neglected pressure and weight of his still fully erect dick is a pain he can’t ignore but is forced to.
“I can’t believe this is happening.”
“It did.”
“We’ve traumatized them.”
“Sol, that’s a bit fucking dramatic.”
She gasps, one hand over her mouth. Her voice is muffled against her palm but audible, nonetheless. “They’re never going to be the same.”
“We already have them in therapy. They’ll be alright.” His shrug and perhaps dismissive comment earns him a glare that makes him roll his eyes. “Baby, come on. It’s not great, but it’s not the worse thing ever.” Surely. Surely, there are many other things he can list off the top of his head that could forever scar his children.
This isn’t one of them.
“But you know what does fucking suck?” She frowns, and he gestures to his lap, the outline of his big dick and wet spot where cum is smeared against the sheets stare back at them. “Being so close to feeling that pretty puss—”
“Roman.” She closes her eyes and runs her hand through her blown out hair. He can’t help the way his eyes drop to her chest, the outline of her chocolate nipples through the thin sheet making his mouth water and cock twitch. “Really?”
He shrugs once more, unsure where the issue lies, hence his blunt explanation. “We might as well finish—” Solana’s fist colliding with his bicep, however, silences him.
“Roman!”
“What?” He cuts his eyes, running his hand down his face. What’s done is done. What harm is there in them both finding their release before they tackle the fallout this….incident will have caused.
But it seems Solana isn’t seeing it that way.
Her pretty eyes narrow into slits that draw his gaze away from her big ass titties he’d much rather have in his mouth right now. “Our seven and six year old children just walked in on us having sex, and all you can think about is resuming?”
Perhaps he should consider his answer before providing it, but in this moment, he can’t think of any other response than what’s provided in the most casual of tones.
“Well, yes.”
It’s the wrong answer.
Solana punches and shoves at him once, twice, three times before she stands up from the bed, ranting in Spanish the entire time, the sound of the bathroom door slamming as he closes his eyes and curses lowly.
“Baby, was that a no?”
“ROMAN!”
Not a word is said. The only sound that fills the Reigns family living room is the volume of the TV turned low and Dulce in the corner playing with one of her squeaky toys, turned away from the unexpected emergency family meeting.
Lina, Leya, and Tama all sit on one sofa. The oldest with her hands squeezing the edge of the sofa. Tama kicking his legs up and down. Leya holding onto her latest Build-A-Bear that Roman gifted her when he took the girls out two weekends ago so that Solana could spend time with the boys.
Meanwhile, Solana sits next to her husband who is leaned back into the sofa with his arms crossed. A position that indicates a level of nonchalance that’s the polar opposite of his wife who is perched on the edge of the sofa, hands folded gracefully on her knees.
“Well.” She eventually clears her throat, kickstarting the conversation no parent ever wants to have. “I know….I know you guys must have questions.”
Of course they do. At seven and six, the oldest set of kids, coined the OG’s of their siblings, are never short of questions to issue to one or both parents. Leya being the exception. She’s not as vocal as her siblings, often preferring to ask hers in the form of little notes, diary entries, and whispers that follow the tug of a sleeve.
She’s like Solana. Quiet and reserved.
Lina and Tama couldn’t be any more opposite.
The eldest boy the first to ask, continuing to kick, his eyes ever so often drifting to the TV. “What were you doing?”
It’s only one of many questions to follow, however, as Lina purses her lips together. She reaches to push back a curl that’s just one of several to slip out of the bun she did herself this morning, wanting to try to do her hair on her own. A valiant effort with a subpar outcome. “And why were you guys naked?”
“Are all your clothes dirty, mami?”
“Did the clothes fairy take all your clothes?”
“Is it because we’re poor now?”
“Fucking hell,” Roman curses lowly. Solana subtly shifts her right thigh into his leg, the closest thing she can do without actually shoving him in front of their children who are hitting them with a number and variety of questions they weren’t fully prepared for. Obviously. “No, we’re not poor, son.”
“Babies.” Solana manages a small smile despite the way her stomach is in knots and has been in knots from the moment the door opened and revealed her in the midst of….riding. “Mommy and daddy…..we…..well, we were playing a game.”
Lina tilts her head to the side, and Tama frowns, as if not following. Leya is the only one who’s remained silent, allowing her siblings to be her voice as she gently caresses the lilac mane of her stuffed animal. “Is that why you were sitting on top of daddy?”
Solana feels like her body is on fire. Like she accidentally hit the heat on the thermostat this morning instead of the AC. She can only imagine how flustered and reddened her face must be.
This is a mess.
“Yes,” she manages. How? She hasn’t the slightest clue. Similar to how she’s not entirely sure how to explain said game to her children who haven’t even hit double digits yet.
“What’s the game called?”
Thankfully, a lifeline is thrown as Roman decided to enter the discussion, saving his wife from Lina’s follow-up. “It’s not for kids.”
Tama’s frown deepens at the answer, his confusion written all over his adorable face. At six, he still holds a level of baby fat. Chubby cheeks and thicker limbs with a head full of hair and the best hugs for his mama. “The game is called It’s Not For Kids?”
Roman leans forward and shakes his head. “No, I’m saying the game we were playing isn’t for kids.”
Lina tilts her head to the side. “How come?”
“We’ll tell you when you’re older.”
“How old?”
“Very old.”
“Like you?”
Roman opens his mouth, clearly to say some smart shit back to his smartass son only to quickly pivot. He looks over at his wife, his deep voice gruff and almost murmured, “don’t ask me to have no more goddamn kids.”
“Roman.”
Lina giggles. From a baby, she’s always been most entertained by Roman’s potty mouth. He’d be going off on someone over the phone as the girls sat with him in his office, in their matching bouncers, because they’ve always wanted to be by him, and she’d be smiling and babbling away. What he always feared causing them to fear him has always been the side of him that Lina especially has found most entertaining. “Daddy, you said a bad word.”
“It’s cause he’s old,” Tama supplies, leaning over and grabbing his feet as he explains to his sisters, “uncle Dwayne said old people can say bad words.”
Lina nods with agreement, as if the explanation unlocked the part of her brain that’d temporarily forgotten such important information. “That’s why mommy doesn’t say bad words. Cause she’s not old.”
Roman, however, has shifted from one question to another, finally landing on the one that’s the most pressing following their short exchange. He frowns. “How old do ya’ll think I am?”
Tama doesn’t miss a beat answering with a straight face and utmost confidence. “105.”
Solana’s quiet gasp beside him is only partially registered as his eyes widen. “A hundred—” Roman runs his hand over his face, stroking at his beard he’s almost certain is going to be entirely white before the end of this conversation. “Both of ya’ll asses are getting taken out my will.”
“Roman!”
“What’s a will?”
“Something only you will be in, Leya,” he answers with an abundance of ease. At this point, her spot is guaranteed. Aria, Nick, Koa, and Kai as well, too. But these other two hellion children of his?
Yeah, they can be taken care of by Solana’s side of the family.
“The point here,” Solana steps in, stressing the word ‘point’ and clearly wanting to get things back on track. She reaches over, hand on his knee, smile directed towards the sources of the headache Roman can feel brewing. It started when he was so fucking close to coming all in his wife until they decided to be fucking cock blockers. “—is that mommy and daddy were doing what mommies and daddies do, and it’s not for kids, but we’re sorry that you saw us.”
Leya hugs her stuffed animal closer, deciding to break the silence she’s always comfortable sat in, even from the moment she said her first word. Roman and Solana have always said Leya rests in the quiet because she knows her twin will always fill it for her. For both of them. And God has that been the truth.
“Is that the game that makes babies?”
Still reeling from his disrespectful ass children’s ridiculous ass belief regarding his age, Roman is only somewhat paying attention to Leya's question that has Solana looking, once again, like a deer in headlights.
“Umm,” she starts, engaging in the quickest creation, navigation, and finalization of a mental pros and cons list that one can mentally conjure in such a do or die moment. “Y—yes. It—it is.”
Tama’s face settles into a scowl that is reminiscent, once more, of his father who sits across from him wearing the same expression. A mirror. “You and daddy play the game a lot.”
“Is that why you have so many babies, mami?”
“She’s not having any more. I can tell you that much.”
“Roman, please,” Solana hisses, casting him a quick side glare and widening of her eyes that nonverbally implores some sort of request for cooperation vs sabotage.
“But you were just playing it.”
“It doesn’t always make a baby, Lina.” Solana explains, reviving her smile and resisting the urge to elbow her unhelpful husband. “Just….sometimes.”
“Well, how do you—”
“Look,” Roman cuts in. The shift in his voice, deeper and with a hint of irritation, draws the focus of his kids and his wife. “The deal is this. When your mom and I are in the room with the door closed and especially with it locked, you guys aren’t to come in. We told you before we went upstairs we were going to be busy and to knock if you needed something.” Tama opens his mouth, hence Roman lifting his hand to silence what he already has a rebuttal for. “You guys wanted something. You didn’t need anything, and I don’t know how the hell you can get bored when we got this big ass house and there’s three of you.”
“Your dad is right, babies.” Solana sighs. She runs her thumb over Roman’s knee, adopting a perhaps gentler approach to what is an undisputed truth. “Your bothers and sisters are down for naps. I fixed you lunch not even an hour ago and made snacks. You didn’t really need us.”
“But beyond that—” Roman gestures between the terror non-twins with his index finger. “Ya’ll gotta stop with this picking the locks shit. I get that you were young when you first stated doing it and didn’t really know better, but you guys are older and should know better by now.” He focuses his gaze especially on the eldest of his unruly children. “And I know it was you who taught your brother and sister.”
More Tama than Leya being the student, because Roman has no doubt the most well behaved of his offspring has never utilized any of the criminal like behavior taught by her sister. She’s always just been an innocent bystander. An unwilling accomplice.
Confronted with a truth she can’t deny, Lina instead pouts and crosses her arms. “But I already showed Aria and Nic!“
“You what?” And just like that, Roman’s blood pressure shoots up once more. Or maybe it’s just been up since the kids walked in on them and is just reaching levels previously unknown. “They’re only 2 and 3. How the hell did you—”
“Well, don’t teach or show them any more, okay?” Solana forces a smile and lifts her hand to caress the back of Roman’s neck, fingers brushing against the soft curls and making gentle circular motions near his scalp. A small, subtle but helpful act that always helps to calm him down, which is evidently needed given these damn kids are two more questions or statements away from giving him a stroke.
Tama is the first to fold, giving a dramatic sigh while looking at Sol. “Okay, mami.”
“I won’t do it anymore,” Lina also concedes, shoulders dropping as Leya reaches over to take her hand, offering a small smile.
It’s a sweet gesture, but Roman is still confused. “Now why the hell couldn’t ya’ll just listen when I sa—”
A semi loud buzzing sound redirects focus and causes Solana’s hand to drop from its soothing position to lean over and grab her phone. Roman peers down as she taps her fingers quickly and pulls up a familiar screen. The app that connects to the baby monitors in all of the younger kids rooms. The inside of Nicolás room with his small body sitting up in the middle of his bed, still swaddled in his Cars themed bedding. Rubbing his eyes, his dark hair ruffled and a small frown on his face, Solana hits the volume just in time for a soft “mommy” to fill the living room.
“Nicky’s up,” she says more to the kids than her husband. Locking the phone and reaching it to Roman, she stands up, his eyes briefly shifting to the back of her ass that’s curved and sitting perfectly in her skin tight shorts. “Mommy’s gotta go check on Nicky, but you guys can ask daddy any more questions you have.”
It’s that last sentence, however, that stops Roman from licking his lips and reaching to palm his wife’s nice, round ass and instead look up at her with a shade of bewilderment. “Wait, what?”
Solana turns and leans over, pressing a kiss to his cheek, whispering quickly, “you got this, papi.”
His jaw tightens. “Sol—“
Another peck to the corner of his mouth before she’s walking out to tend to their middle son.
That leaves just him with the eldest three.
The OG’s.
Except the time for them bombarding him with question after question, most of which he knows he can’t answer even remotely as well as his wife, is over as he has his own question.
“How old do you think your mom is?”
Roman is far from a stupid man. His wife being ten years his junior comes at little surprise to no one. Solana, in his opinion, has always looked a bit on the younger side. A youthful face that hasn’t changed much since the first time he laid eyes on her. Thus, he expects the guess to be on the lower end of the number spectrum.
He just couldn’t have anticipated how low.
“25.”
His jaw drops just a few inches, gaze locked between Terror Child 1 and Terror Child 2. “25?” He could see it. Sure. Again, not even forty, she’s far from old, and unlike himself, hasn’t a gray hair in sight. But it’s the large gap in age guesses that has him puzzled.
Lina nods with a big smile. “Uncle Dwayne said you bought mommy from the mommy store because she was a sweet young thing.”
“Yeah!” Tama adds enthusiastically, sharing his own horror story that has Roman’s fingers burning and itching to call and cuss out his fucking stupid ass cousin. “And cousin Zilla said you love mommy a lot cause she’s got a gyat.” Tama frowns looking between his sisters and then Roman before ultimately shrugging with defeat. “But we don’t know what any of that means.”
“They said they'll tell us when we’re older.” Leya offers the final statement with a small, innocent smile and gentle squeeze of her sister’s hand before she hugs her stuffed animal once more.
Meanwhile, Roman is back to square one. On the verge of a stroke.
There’s so much to process. So much to digest. First things first, he’s cussing out both Dwayne and Zilla. Probably firing the latter cause what the fuck?
“So let me get this straight.” Brows caved, tossing her phone on the sofa to the side of him, Roman is all hand gestures and deep scowl as he tries to make sense of the nonsense. “You think your mom is 25, but I’m 105—”
“106,” Lina interjects. “You just had another birthday when mommy was talking.”
Tama nods, face just as serious as his voice while he clarifies as if it’s the most obvious thing, “old people grow up really faster.”
Roman closes his eyes.
These. Fucking. Kids.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, leaning back into the sofa, head back as he tries to count backwards from 10. Or 100. “Go to your rooms.”
The chorus of their giddy laughter is the backdrop to his misery. How the fuck did he end up with two such fucking nightmares of children? It’s like they spend time figuring out ways to drive him fucking mad.
He keeps trying to tell Solana those two are gonna send him to an early grave, but she doesn’t believe him.
Bet she’ll believe it when he’s on his deathbed, and she’s holding his hand while the fucking Joker and Harley Quinn are standing at the edge of said deathbed asking when the bank closes.
Thoughts of revisiting the previously abandoned discussion of boarding school are interrupted when Roman feels movement. He snaps his head forward only to be met with Leya reaching for his arm as she climbs onto the sofa. Her stuffed animal set in the same spot where Solana previously sat. It’s the twinkle in her eyes, however, and the way she almost nervously lifts her hand to his face, that give him pause. Her small palm pressing gently against his cheek. The smile that grows as his beard no doubt tickles her before she leans over and wraps her arms around his neck. Just like that, all the tension and frustration melt away.
What’s left is the peace and calm. His hand on the small of her back as he returns her gesture when she pulls back just enough to look at him. Roman pushes her curls out of her face, seeing so much of Solana in her. Beyond just appearance. Leya inherited every bit of her mother, including Solana’s uncanny ability to soothe him on his darkest days.
But something tugs in his chest as he stares at her. He sees those same eyes that stared back at him with innocent wonder the first time he held her. This tiny human being who he was secretly terrified of dropping or holding too tight. Not keeping his hand in the right spot to support her neck. So many concerns and worries that’ve calmed slightly but will always remain to some degree.
And it baffles him. How quickly time has passed.
Seven. Lina and Leya are now seven.
It feels like only yesterday he and Solana were bringing the girls home for the first time, and now he can recall the way they crowded their parents when Koa and Kai were carried through the front door for the first time.
It’s fucking surreal.
He opens his mouth to return her sentiment, the I love you, daddy she murmured in Samoan as he reflected on time that seems to be moving much too quick for his likening.
And then the fucking deviants.
“Happy birthday, daddy!” Lina shouts happily, running into the living room and jumping on the sofa, as Leya giggles and leans into him. “You just turned 107!”
Tamasa, of course, is not far behind, instead standing before him with his head titled, tossing up and down the football that’s not that much bigger than his head with practiced ease. “Do you need a cane now?”
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author’s note: this started off as just some freaky shit i wrote in anticipation of bucket head clocking in yesterday.
#jokesonme
warnings: smut. vaginal penetration. dirty talk. unprotected sex. multiple positions. unhealthy relationships. strong themes of infidelity. it's all so messy tbh.
pairing: roman reigns x black!oc
word count: 6.7k+
credit: photos from pinterest. gif from google.
Heaven swore up and down that the last time was just that—the last time. That she would never feel the softness of the 400 thread count sheets under her nude body, head reclined back into the soft pillows, fluttering gaze focused on the coffered ceiling, trimmed around each side, hazy under the dimmed yellow lighting.
Said that it was the last time she’d moan his name.
That was a lie.
Because the very thing she promised herself would never happen again is exactly what’s happening.
Her almond acrylics, painted a vibrant blue that contrasts with her deep melanin and matches with that of her young daughter, dig into the sheets the same way he digs into her. Legs up on his shoulders, a look down the length of her body, over the rolls of her stomach grant her the view that has her pussy clenching around him.
In and out, he drives into her with focused, deep strokes. His fat, long member glistening white from the combination of their juices. Disappearing and reappearing, each entrance making her pussy emit a loud, crude squelching sound that’s matched only by her moans that echo throughout the tour bus.
A tour bus she’s allowed the man above to defile her in one too many times.
“Fuck, Hev,” his groaned curse above makes her redirect her gaze upwards, eyes partially shut, head back, bliss painted all over his handsome face. “Feels better every fucking time.”
She abhors the way his words make her pulse around him once more. There should have never been a first time, let alone multiple after times.
“Play with your pussy for me, baby.”
His borderline growled command is met with almost unavoidable obedience. The way her hand snakes down to her enlarged pearl, the first and slightest flicker making her hiss quietly, stomach caving.
Each caress and stroke along with the way he fucks into her upping the ante. The increased weight as he leans over, reaching and fucking her deeper, making her moan his name louder, waves and echoes that slam into every inch of the bus.
Much like any of the other times he’s managed to ease his way inside of her, they switch positions right as she feels she’s about to reach the mountain top.
Once under him, she’s now on top, bouncing on his dick, his hands planted on her hips as he fucks up into her.
“Look how good you take this dick,” he groans, fingers digging into her ass, left hand smoothing up her body, squeezing her breast, thumb and index finger pinching her nipple. “You ain’t been fucked right since the last time, huh?”
She has to ignore him, a task that’s a lot easier said than done given how fucking gone she is. Headboard slapping agains the wall the same way his heavy balls slap against her ass with each thrust he meets her for.
“He could never handle you,” he continues, her hands on his chest to steady her. “Never deserved you in the first fucking place.”
“N—neither do y—you.” Where her response comes from, she hasn’t the slightest clue. She typically ignores when he does this, pokes the bear, peels back layers that should remain untouched. Makes her face just one of the many uncomfortable truths about this whole thing.
But over 15 years of knowing the man underneath her should have taught her that if it’s one thing Roman Reigns always does, it’s have the last word.
She whimpers when he grinds his dick inside her, making her gasp and scratch at his chest. “Then why are you riding my dick right now and not his?”
It’s the question she keeps asking herself every time it happens, especially in the massive waves of guilt that follow each sin.
She says nothing.
An unacceptable response.
“Say my name, Heaven.”
The darkening of his voice is accompanied by his hand moving up to her neck. Her eyes shut, but even without the aid of her vision, she can still feel and see the way his eyes burn into her.
A slap to her ass followed by reiteration. “Say it.”
She almost slips up, almost feeds the need of either his ego or his something else, but she remains strong, even as he slams up into her, essentially overtaking any control she previously had by being on top.
Except, once more a reminder that Roman has never done well with not getting his way.
Another switch of positions, Heaven once again on her back, Roman’s big hands restraining her wrists above her head. His mouth is on her as she tightens her thick thighs around his waist, ankles locked at the top of his firm ass.
He groans into their kiss—slow, sloppy, spit swapping—forehead against hers. “Say it.”
And the final request, pained and desperate, is where her resolve starts to crumble. It starts with the way she tugs against his unforgiving restraint, not to be released, but to feel. To be able to run her hands along every sharp, taut, defined ridge of muscle, and dark ink wrapped around smooth skin. To push back his silky hair that rainfalls around her face, enclosing her in, almost symbolizing the way way nothing and no one exists outside of them.
“Roman.”
Dangerous, risky, forbidden. All of the terms still apply but none of them matter, because the minute he loosens his grip and she palms his face, smashing her lips onto his, continuing to whisper and repeat his name like a secret prayer that can only bring about salvation…it’s the only thing she cares about.
“I can’t let go of you, Hev,” he breathes, continuing to thrust in and out of her, their bodies moving as one. In perfect sync, as if designed that way and for that one, sole purpose. “I’ve tried. I can’t.”
She clenches her eyes shut, unwilling to let the tears fall. Crying from the bliss and pleasure the sex between them brings is one thing but crying over what lies so much deeper than just the physical….Heaven can’t bring herself to do that. Won’t allow herself to do it, because then she has to finally acknowledge a truth she’s starting to think might have always existed.
Something she—and maybe him—tried to deny.
But, something that’s burning to emerge to the surface.
She yelps when he drags his hands to the back of her thighs, tugging her even closer, despite it not being humanly possible for her to be—or feel—any closer to him than what's felt right now.
“Why should he get you?” The increased rhythm and intensity of his hips slamming into her are juxtaposed to the borderline growl of his rhetorical question. “Mine. You should have always been mine.”
Heaven hates the way she clings closer at his words.
But, long-term vulnerability has never been one of Roman’s gifts in life. At least, not in the romantic aspect. Give an inch, then retreat back ten yards or more. That’s been him as long as she’s known him, that they’ve known each other, that their families have known each other and become intertwined in a way that makes this whole act of betrayal that much more sickening.
The expressions of adoration and emotionality are swapped out as he flips her once more, on her hands and knees, fist full of her hair, snapping his hips almost erratically with enough force to make the bed rock and creak over and over again.
“Look at you,” he groans. “Pussy dripping and making a fucking mess all over me.” She moans and gasps when he brings his mouth to side of her face, licking upwards on her temple. “Bet he never got you this fucking wet.”
Heaven isn’t sure what she hates more. The fact that he’s right or the use of ‘got.’ Past tense. Like, he knows she can’t remember the last time she was intimate with her husband. Months, for sure.
Or, perhaps there was a moment or two in between then that never stuck, because Jey has never really fucked her in the way Roman does. Has.
Maybe when they were younger. Two young teens with hopes and aspirations that sometimes exceeded reality. Lost in one another. And, maybe even that was dented and embedded with flaws she never recognized. Jey was her first everything. First boyfriend. First love. First time. Maybe it was all of the inaugural aspects of their relationship that blinded her to the faults that seem to only increase with each passing year.
Or, maybe Heaven just wants to find something to try to help her justify her behavior.
A waste of time.
There’s no justification for a married woman falling in bed with a man who is also married. Especially when said man is the cousin of one’s husband and the husband of her cousin. More of a sister than anything.
A label and title that should be stripped away, because what kind of sister does this?
“You’re close, aren’t you, sweetheart?” He continues, the burning in her elbows, coiling in her stomach and throbbing of her pussy all the telltale signs she knows that he knows very well by now. “Can feel it in the way she gripping me. Fuuccck,” he curses. One look over her shoulder reveals he too is close. All the tell tales on full display. Head tilted back once more, the bite on his full bottom lip, the flush of his cheeks and the increasing sloppiness of his fucking.
They’re both near the edge.
“Where do you want me, Angel?” She grips the sheets and groans quietly, feeling his palm move over the apple of his ass. “Tell daddy where you want his cum.”
Damn him.
Once more, an equal amount of frustration as is passion and lust, the latter overpowering the former.
“In—inside me.”
She knows better than to push him this second time. Knows to give him an answer. The only answer she can, or maybe, the only answer she wants to provide.
It didn’t start out this way, her repulsive request for the grand finale. For most women, it’s anything but. For her, it’s all a part of the packaged deal she can’t seem to dismantle and break apart.
“Heaven.”
A final moan of her name, the feel of his final, deep, hard strokes until she can’t feel anything more than the rush that soars through her entire body. The collapse onto the mattress, the feel of him jerking, still embedded deep within her fat pussy. His weight her as he holds and falls on top of her, kisses peppered along her shoulder and the side of her face. Quiet words of praise as he grinds his dick into her ass, intent on stuffing and filling her to the brim with his cum.
Just as she’d requested.
There’s an audible pop sound as he tugs himself from her used, swollen walls, their conjoined juices dripping from his gradually softening cock. The sheets that hold all of their dirty secrets absorb the quiet whimper at the feel of his dickhead swiping up and down her folds, two of his thick fingers plunged inside of her, pushing it in deeper.
Laying claim to what was never his to begin with.
Not that it’s stopped him—or them—before.
She lays there, waiting for him to bring the towel so they can clean up some of the mess made. The right thing to do is to barricade herself in the bathroom on his bus and wash up as best as possible. For a variety of reasons. One of them being she’s almost certain that they’re nearing the end of the show, which means he’ll need to be out there.
But, that doesn’t happen. What instead happens is what typically occurs following….this.
Roman returns, having cleaned up himself well enough, drags one towel over her cunt, ass, and inside of her thighs. Lifts up her lower body just enough to lay down another towel to absorb what the first did not. And then the sound of the bed creaking as he joins her, on his back looking up at the ceiling, running a hand through his hair.
She lays there, on her stomach, naked, exposed, and used in the filthiest ways by a man who wears a wedding band on his left hand placed there by not her.
Similar to the ring on her left hand.
“You ever think about it?”
His words shattering the silence are vague yet the opening for another Pandora’s box she knows she shouldn’t open. Should leave it alone.
If only it was that easy.
“Think about what?”
Heaven watches the motion of his Adam’s apple. “If things were different.” She frowns, as he looks over at her. “If we did things differently.”
There are several different things he could be referring to, but for some reason, whatever reason, what comes to mind is the first time.
Not when emotions, passion, and attraction reached a high a few years ago. That was the first time she broke her marital vows, but it wasn’t the first time the line was crossed, period.
It’d happened before that. When she and the man staring back at her kickstarted what would be a confusing, complicated, messy years long thing. They were both in college, both attending Georgia Tech, Jey in Texas, and Camryn, her cousin and Roman’s girlfriend, now wife, back in Florida. Attending a local university so she’d have more help taking care of their young son, Nathan. Teen parents who were doing the best they could, all things considered.
Heaven was always close with the family. Meeting them through her cousin who she stayed with every summer since the age of six. Only a few months apart, Camryn and Heaven, both only children, bonded instantly and became the closest of friends. Sisters.
Roman’s family lived in the same neighborhood as Camryn. The Usos were less than five minute away. Heaven quickly formed a bond with the boys as well. Had an instant crush on all of them from the initial meeting, though something about Jey always lulled her in his direction. It wasn’t until their early teens, however, that he expressed having feelings for her as well, the confession resulting in them becoming a couple. She loved him. Loved him something deep, which was why she was riddled with agony and unforgiving guilt when she woke up one morning, naked and hungover, Roman right beside her in a similair state.
To this day, she’s not sure how it happened. But, it had, and they both expressed shared regret along with mutual agreement that it was best to not tell their respective partners. A night wiped from the books, never to be spoken of again.
But, some things cannot be erased, leaving behind a potentially permanent reminder.
It led to one of the hardest, important decisions Heaven has ever made in her life. It made the most sense though. Roman was only 21 and already had one child, Nathan, still a toddler at the time. She was 19 and had barely started life, not to mention all the other reasons it just couldn’t happen.
The right decision was made. She knows this. But, it doesn’t mean she doesn’t wonder from time to time.
What if.
Roman might not be the best husband, but he’s one hell of a father, and it’s reflected in the close relationship he has with his son. 23 and a tight end for the San Francisco 49ers. First round draft pick.
It’s something she’s always admired about him. How he never fails to prioritize his family. Maybe not his wife, but Heaven knows better than most how rocky that’s been for them. Not even that, however, has prevented and gotten in the way of him always showing up for his firstborn. No matter what.
Sometimes….sometimes she wonders about that, too.
If…if things would be slightly or completely different if he knew. How his and Nathan’s life would have turned out, how their relationship would be if Camryn revealed the truth. A truth Heaven’s cousin has only shared with her and no one else. A secret Heaven will die with, because at the end of the day, biological or not, a revelation would only do more harm than good.
And, she’s caused enough harm to their family already.
To her own husband.
Truth be told, she’d thought that her long distance relationship with Jey wouldn’t last. Especially for such young kids. But, it had. They made it work. Not without ebbs and flows, especially once Jey flunked out of college and didn’t really know what he was doing with his life. Similair to Roman whose NFL hopes and dreams were dashed, leaving him doing what he could and whatever he had to do to provide for Camryn and his son.
Roman has always been a provider, and she’s always respected him immensely for it.
Jey is the same.
In some ways.
But….not in a way she would have liked.
She was definitely the breadwinner at various points in their relationship. Flunking out of school led to her husband spiraling and only finding solace at the bottom of a bottle. There were affairs. He never admitted it, but she knew. Still, she stayed. She stuck by him because she loved him. Because she believed in him.
Believed in them.
Wanted to believe that it would all work out in the end, even if she set aside and sacrificed her own aspirations in following in both her parents footsteps and becoming a lawyer. Watching and supporting her cousin get to where she is now as one of the top real estate agents in the state of Florida.
It never bothered Heaven though. She’d always been the type to be genuinely happy for those she loves. Holding onto hope for her own happy ending. Of one day going to law school.
Starting a family.
But, things don’t always turn out the way we plan.
She’s not sure when exactly it started, but as Jey found his peace and redemption in wrestling, started to make a name for himself alongside Roman who completely rebranded and changed the game forever, something was lost along the way.
Jey stopped coming home as much. Stayed on the road for weeks at a time. Stopped inviting her on said road for occasional visits. Presented with an irritability she couldn’t understand when she asked what were, to her, innocent questions. The higher his star rose, the more distance she felt forming between them. She did her best to make the most of their time when he would come home to visit, but it only ever felt like he wanted what was between her legs versus spending actual, quality time with her like she wanted.
And, then, it happened.
She found out she was pregnant.
Something she was thrilled about.
Something he was not thrilled about.
It still hurts her to this day when she recalls the almost scowl on his face. The ‘you sure?’ that he kept repeating even as she showed him the sonogram. The appointments he missed. There for Macy’s birth but gone three days later. A pattern, of sorts. Even now, their little girl, going on five and starting to ask more questions about her dad, why he’s never home, and the way Jey always seems to dance around the discussion of taking time off, it makes her wonder.
She thought he’d eventually come around to fatherhood, especially as he’d told her from the beginning that he wanted kids, but she’s not entirely certain anymore.
It’s a tough pill to swallow, especially when juxtaposed to the role Roman plays in Macy’s life.
The restructuring of his contract a few years prior allowed him to be home more, an ironic thing considering the taking off of Camryn’s side consultant business kickstarted a lot more travel along with their son also out of the house at that point. It made him available when Jey was not. When Jimmy and Naomi were home, they’d help out, too, but they also traveled frequently like Heaven’s husband.
And, with majority of her family back home in North Carolina and a small friend group in Florida, that really left only her husband’s cousin who was also Heaven’s good friend and a confidant.
Even when he and Jey went through their nasty bout a few years back. Though that was never much of a surprise to those close to the family. As close as the guys were, she always felt and noticed some level of lingering, unspoken tension between her husband and his cousin. It’d never really been discussed much nor did she ever really receive a clear answer when she probed, thus her just leaving it alone.
Now, a few years later, in the past few weeks especially, she’s started to detect slight sparks that indicate a return.
Mostly caused by, of all things, Roman’s relationship with Macy. It started a few months ago, really. Snide comment here and there from her husband about what Heaven considered insignificant and not worth getting upset over. The photo of a smiling Macy taking a selfie with her uncle Roman that was the lock screen on her tablet. The gallery on said tablet filled with family pictures and silly selfies that had more of her uncle than her own father. Jey’s irritation with how whenever Roman was working a show or PLE, he made sure to fly out Heaven and Macy with him so the five year-old could see her dad.
To a certain extent, Heaven can see why and understand Jey’s frustration. She really can. But, the fact of the matter is that the reason Roman holds such a close relationship with their—her—daughter is because he’s been there since day one.
Roman and Camryn. And in more recent years, Roman more than anything.
It was Roman who offered to attend OB-GYN appointments with her. Roman who was at the hospital with her, waiting in the lobby, Camryn on her left side, her mom on the right, when she went into labor. Jey barely made it by the skin of his teeth for the birth of their daughter.
Roman was there less than an hour after her water broke.
Roman and/or Camryn handled preschool pickups for her so that she didn’t have to leave her job. Sometimes still pick Macy up from kindergarten when Heaven gets held up at the office.
When Macy was only six months old and running a 102 fever as a baby, it was Roman who sat with her in the emergency room—Camryn out of town. When Macy had her preschool graduation, Roman was the one in attendance. Not Jey. It’s “Uncle Roman” that Macy asks about more and more about and for as she gets older.
Sometimes….sometimes it does make Heaven nervous. How easily and quickly Macy bonded to and with him. The…the resemblance. Same smile. Similar personalities. Same eyes…
Heaven has even gone as far as falling down the rabbit hole. Stumbling across gossip threads and forums with 15+ pages of speculation and rumors accompanied by candids snapped of herself, Roman, and Macy.
One user going as far as putting together, side by side, a photo snapped of her baby girl at Mania' two years ago and one of Roman when he was around that age.
Heaven almost cracked the screen of her laptop with the force and speed in which she slammed it shut.
That was the last time she ever allowed herself to look at such things.
Has never sat down and did the math. Looked at the calendar. Checked the dates in Flo. That’s a road she refuses to allow herself to venture down.
Because nothing good would come of it. Too many lives would be ruined.
Things are better as they are.
Even if still fucked up, nevertheless.
“Not really,” she answers, unsurprised when his mouth dips into a frown. Unable and unwilling to dive any deeper, to risk him seeing past the lie that flowed so smoothly off her lips, she moves to climb off the bed, gathering her clothes, grateful when he doesn’t call her name as she heads for the bathroom.
Grateful because she fully recognizes the lack of will on her end to resist him.
—————
Disappearing while technically being at the show for her daughter and to see her husband, as of the last few visits, hasn’t really been as much of an issue given the arguments that have lately preceded her arrival.
Again, small, trivial things that get blown out of proportion but result in Heaven letting Macy spend alone time with Jey while she almost always gets coaxed into joining Roman on his bus or his private locker room.
Where they usually fuck.
Not always though.
Sometimes….sometimes, they just talk. Her leaned into him, eyes shut as he presses his lips against her tempe, their fingers threaded, the peace his presence grants her something she’s never found in another soul.
Not even her husband.
Before Jimmy started taking more time off and especially now that Naomi is on maternity leave, those alone, close, intimate moments happen more often that not.
Have become a regular.
But, the moment she walks through the back of the arena, offering small smiles to those in passing, superstars and crew alike, Roman only a few feet behind, the peace is instantly crushed and replaced with panic when her eyes land on the scene before her.
Jey on one knee, hands placed on Macy’s little shoulders, the Yeet shirt two sizes too large and draping off her frame, yet another small but telling indicator of the distance that exists between himself and his daughter.
He doesn’t even know what size she wears.
Rushed footsteps carry her over, frown deepening the closer she gets and realizes Macy’s head is down, hands over her ears, mouth scrunched up into a pout. Her face is flushed, and her eyes are clenched shut.
“What happened?” Heaven demands, but her focus is on her daughter as she bends down and gently cups her face. “Baby, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” Jey is the one to answer, his gaze bouncing back and forth between herself and Roman who she’s 100% certain carries the same concerned expression. “She was fine at first. Smiling and shit.”
Before Heaven can press on the “at first” part of his response, her attention is refocused on her daughter who offers a quiet, emotional “loud” that puts all the pieces together.
Roman, however, is the first to say something.
“Did you take her out there?”
Heaven beckons Macy into her arms, her little girl melting into her mother’s warm embrace, as she kisses the top of her head and stands up, Macy's small arms wrapped around her neck.
“It was just a short promo,” is the defensive answer as Jey stands, glasses sitting atop his head. “Wasn’t even that long.”
It’s only because of the concern that flows through Heaven for her baby girl that she doesn’t snap at Jey on the spot.
It all makes sense. Macy shutting down and clearly feeling overwhelmed. Because she is.
Because of Jey.
“Can you go hang out with Uncle Roman for me for a little bit, baby?” It’s a question that doesn’t even really need to be asked, Heaven already knowing the answer. Macy wordless nods into her, Heaven pressing a final, lingering kiss to her head before handing her over to Roman, Macy already reaching for him.
Heaven doesn’t need to say anything else, Roman already walking away, most likely to take her to his locker room so she can calm down and find much needed silence.
It’d be best for Heaven to ask Jey to take them to his locker room, but the absence of her child opens the door for the bulk of her rage.
She doesn’t give a fuck who hears or sees shit.
“What the hell were you thinking, Jey?” She snaps, hand formed into a fist at her side, the tips of her nails digging into the skin of her palm. “Why the fuck would you take her out there?”
“Aye, watch your tone.”
“Answer me!” She shouts, uncaring at the few glances cast their way as she drills into him. “You know that’s too much for her! I told you it was too much for her.”
He sucks his teeth. “She didn’t say nothing.”
“She’s five. She shouldn’t have to,” Heaven stresses, hating the way her chest starts to tighten the way it almost always does when they argue about something near and dear to her heart. Especially as it pertains to her daughter.
“Look.” His voice deepens as he steps closer, tone dipping. “I asked her if she wanted to do it with me. She said yes. I don’t see what the prob—”
“Again, she’s five, Jey.” Heaven doesn’t know how many goddamn times she has to point this shit out to a grown ass man, but it’s beyond redundant and frustrating at this point. “And, she probably said yes, because she just wants to spend time with you. But, you can’t be bothered to learn what things to do to bond with your own daughter, because you’re too goddamn busy with this stupid Yeet shit!”
Even in the moment, she recognizes that she’s taken it too far. That her words are unnecessarily hurtful, but they’re fueled by a mother’s protectiveness and a father’s careless, borderline dangerous indifference.
Heaven can still recall every single piece of information pertaining to all the developments. The initial suspicions she had just hours after giving birth, the almost tedious and cautious way the doctors almost tried to dance around the subject before suggesting “additional” testing. The way her eyes locked with Jey’s through the glass as she sat in the chair, holding her sweet baby girl, already knowing the outcome of the screening the minute she saw his eyes water.
A few follow-up tests later confirmed it. Macy was born with bilateral sensorineural hearing loss. Bilateral in that it was in both ears.
She couldn’t hear.
She was deaf.
It was a jarring, unexpected diagnosis that left Heaven reeling with so many questions and concerns not seemingly shared by Jey. While she leaned into the grief, knowing she needed to fully feel her emotions to be best able to care for her daughter, he avoided them like the plague.
Sometimes she thinks that’s why he left just a few days after Macy’s birth.
Avoidance behavior.
He couldn’t take it, which was understandable but unfair in that it left the weight of the discovery a burden no wife should have to carry alone.
But, she wasn’t. She was surrounded by a circle of love and support. Her mom stayed with her for almost a month. Roman and Camryn made and kept themselves available. Even Jey’s parents whom she’s always held a close relationship with.
It helped, but at the core of it, what Heaven wanted—needed most—was her husband.
If only he recognized as such.
Still, the day that her baby girl was fitted for and set up with her hearing aids, when Heaven saw the way Macy’s big brown eyes followed the sound of her mother’s voice, when Heaven realized that her daughter had finally heard her mother’s voice for the first time….she broke down. It will always be one of the best days of her life.
Her mother, Camryn, and Roman in the room with her.
Jey was not.
On top of hearing aids and several visits and appointments with a child audiologist and neurologist, they got Macy set up with speech therapy at a young age. All of the early intervention steps have allowed her to be a happy, healthy little girl, but she has her struggles. One of them being loud noises something that’s overwhelming and overstimulating for her. And, Heaven can’t think of something as loud and boisterous as the WWE crowd, especially and primarily when her dad does his famous “Yeet” opening.
The very thing he did with her tonight. The thing Heaven was never in agreement with the first time Jey suggested Macy join him, their sweet baby just wanting to “be like daddy” but ending up coming out on the other end crying and hysterical, Heaven turning off Macy’s hearing aids so she could find decompression in the silence.
Jey was there for that. He saw how Macy reacted, so how he could allow a second time to occur is beyond infuriating.
Reckless, too.
“I guess I can’t just do nothing right, huh?” He scoffs, gesturing to her up and down with a grimace on his face. “I guess I’m just—I’m just some fuck up of a dad.”
Heaven’s eyes double in size, the disbelief reflected in the way her jaw drops. “Are you seriously making this about you right now?” She shouldn’t be surprised. This is becoming a typical thing for him at this point, and for the life of her she can’t recall if it’s a newfound trait of his—unintentional gaslighting—or if it’s always been there.
And, she didn’t see it.
Or didn’t want to, at least.
He maintains his stance, however, digging his feet in the dirt even deeper. “You standing here chastising me like I’m some fucking child, and I’m not a child, Heaven. I’m a grown ass man.”
“So act like one then, Jey!” She shoots back, still unbothered by the eavesdropping of those nearby, noticing the slower steps taken intended to prolong the audible space of their heated argument. “I’m tired of always having to be the parent. Taking care of our daughter while you out here acting like your only job is this. You never have time to come see us, but I can open Instagram and see you riding around drunk with people you don’t even know!”
Back in their late teens and especially early twenties, Heaven can admit the entire friend group was big on partying. Maybe not all the time but definitely a bulk of the time. They had their fun, did the wild, crazy things most people laugh about when reflecting on such days. However, they all eventually grew out of it, recognizing that certain things should and must be put behind oneself as a result of age, maturity, and life in general.
She certainly has.
Camryn has.
Roman has.
Jimmy has.
Jey….not so much.
It almost feels like him being thrusted in the spotlight and being as over as he is right now, how successful he is, has made him want to recapture certain aspects of his youth that, in Heaven’s opinion, should remain exactly where they belong.
In the past.
If only her husband viewed it the same.
“Yeah, you fucking trippin’. I’m grown, Heaven,” he counters. A part of her, though she hides it well, is somewhat hurt that her words don’t seem to penetrate but instead bounce off the steel exterior of a man she’s starting to no longer recognize. “I do what the fuck I want. I don’t answer to you.”
She grows silent, watching the way his brows cave in, subtle twitch of his nose and the anger in his eyes. Standing right before him, she’s never felt such a distance.
“No….” She swallows. “You don’t.”
More needs to be said. The silence that befalls them is drowned out by the thumping her chest, a painful recognition of a deterioration that perhaps started longer than she would like to admit. Even she can even allow herself to admit as such.
Clearing her throat, the sound of people walking and moving past them return to the front seat at she turns to walk away, partially hoping that her husband calls after her. Attempts to keep her from leaving. Tries something.
He does nothing.
By the time she’s outside the door of Roman’s locker room, the tears have already started to fall. She uses the back of her hand to blot her eyes despite it being a waste of time. The minute she walks in, he’ll see, and he’ll know. Roman has always been exceptionally observant, a great skill for one to have in most regards but not right now.
She doesn’t want to talk about this, and he’ll no doubt push and pry.
He can be annoying like that.
Blowing out a breath and smoothing down the creases in her shirt, she bites the bullet and walks in. Met with dim lighting and almost silence, she walks over to the curved leather sofa where Roman’s gaze falls on her at the same time she’s focused on her daughter.
One of the first things she notices is the fact that Macy is no longer wearing her father’s merch. Or, rather it’s covered up by the OTC hoodie Roman got for her last year—perfectly sized—that she almost never travels without and hates when Heaven washes. It’s one of her favorite pieces of clothing. The colorful, rainbow Build-A-Bear in her lap that’s seen better days is also cradled into her chest. Cookie. Macy’s comfort stuffed animal she absolutely will not travel without. Even likes taking to school with her.
Also a gift from Roman.
She’s sitting in Roman’s lap, legs spread across his slightly spread thick thighs, her head laid against his chest, eyes shut, mouth set in an almost perfect line. Peaceful. She looks so at peace.
Then again, she always does when….when she’s with him.
“What the fuck did he do now?”
The stark and abrasive tone of Roman’s voice makes Heaven switch from admiring her sweet little girl to glaring at the man who is seconds away from waking her up. The concern must be show on his face. “I turned them off.”
Oh.
Them being Macy’s hearing aids.
It tracks though. When the noise becomes too much, the silence is what heals.
“Now answer my question.” She sighs, sitting on the other end of the sofa, reaching and fiddling with the shoe strings of Macy’s Nike’s. “What did he say to—”
“We’ll fly home with you tonight.”
Her interruption is a combination of things. Deflection. Frustration. Exhaustion. But, mostly a heaping pile of defeat.
The arguments are becoming so draining, and while she initially planned to stay until tomorrow afternoon, or whenever Jey had to leave, that no longer feels like the best option. He’s upset with her, and when he gets that way, he doesn’t know how to fake a smile and put on a show for the sake of their child.
She doesn’t want to keep exposing Macy to that.
She doesn’t want to keep exposing Macy to any of it.
So, it’s best they depart the same way they they arrived.
SYNOPSIS𑁤 there's an old saying that if you knew then what you know now, you'd have done things differently. even if just a little. karesse shaw is living proof of that. then again, maybe not.
WARNINGS𑁤 smut. dirty talk. unprotected sex. multiple positions. infidelity. age gap (15 yrs). toxic/unhealthy dynamics. codependency. unhealthy relationship dynamics to the max. unhealthy attachment. toxicity through and through. topics pertaining to grief, illness, pregnancy complications, and death. morally gray characters.
WORDS𑁤 fifteen thousand and some change (15k+)
PAIRING𑁤 roman reigns x younger!blackoc
CREDIT𑁤 photos from pinterest and instagram. title graphic and mdni banner by me. gold divider by @/pixopix / melo gif by @/princedevitt and roman gif by @/fabxpunk
AUTHOR’SNOTE𑁤 this is part one of two. what started out as a simple oneshot turned into this massive, lore heavy storyline that was initially inspired by a reel but took on a life of its own. i wrote/am writing it in non-chronological order, so i did my best to piece things together as cohesively as possible. also, this is a hot fucking mess in every sense of the word.
The overwhelming sound of applause, consisting of cheering and clapping, is nothing more than cacophony. Fodder for the rage that soars throughout her body. Born as irritation the minute she heard the haunting opening sound of a theme he hasn't used since the night before his historic title reign came to what many considered an epic conclusion and one of the best main events of all time.
But it gradually reverted back to aggravation when he walked onto the makeshift stage, shiny, gold belt over his shoulder. He'd clearly showered, flyaways of his usually neat, slick bun indicative of how he most likely took a blow dryer to dry what he could and was allowing the Vegas humidity to do the rest.
She doesn't remember it being this warm last year.
Last year….
The same year she said would be the last year.
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.
a/n: so, obviously, there are a handful of similarities between this and the 'with series' what with karesse being a long-term mistress, if we will. so i did my best to make her characterization and backstory the opposite of reader as well as gave this storyline a shit ton more layers. this one will def fuck with your head cause the nuances are insane. karesse and roman are....something. a hell of a lot more backstory in part two as well as wifey's pov.
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒𑁤 most, if not all, things about your relationships easily fall under the category of unorthodox. a unique love story, to say the least. and the ending....well, that remains to be seen.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𑁤 smut. unprotected sex. vaginal penetration. dirty talk. daddy kink. age gap couple (16 years). brief reference to physical illness. angst. themes, references, and discussions pertaining to mental health topics.
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒𑁤 five thousand and some change (5k+)
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𑁤 roman reigns x plussize!black!reader
𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𑁤 photos and gif's from pinterest and instagram. title graphic by me. dividers by @/cafekitsune
𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐎𑁤 ❝waking up in vegas❞ by katy perry // ❝it kills me❞ by melanie fiona
𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𑁤 laying in bed, listening to music, feeling like shit, this idea came to me, so i just opened the notes app and got to writing. most of it was written on my phone in one sitting, so do with that what you will. also, reader and roman are both irritating to me, but i also sympathize with both in different ways. idk. also, the thoughts and views of the characters, by no means, reflect that of the author. lastly, if you're in arisylum, ensure you read the full 7k version posted in the community.
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?
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒𑁤 mari's wedding night is something she always dreamed about. dreamed and prayed would be something special. and sharing said wedding night with her best friend and now husband, joe, is nothing short of special personified. but turns out there's a few things she didn't know about her husband. or rather one specific thing. one big, specific thing.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𑁤 18+. mdni. some sexy time. angst(?). fluff. but mostly usual mari being mari, and joe being joe who's just used to mari being mari.
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒𑁤 four thousand and some change (4k+)
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𑁤 joe anoa'i (roman reigns) x black!oc
𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𑁤 photos and roman gif from google, pinterest, and instagram. sza gif by @/totalsellout. neon divider by @/dividers-are-us. i saved the dividers for the photo set but now can't find where i got them from, so if you know, please let me know so i can credit properly!
𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐎𑁤 ❝let's get it on❞ by marvin gaye
𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𑁤 this has been asked about a lot and in honor of big ears and my sister wife, @sayyestoheav3nn, birthday, i had to finally make it happen.
“Okay, well five minutes plus another five minutes then!”
Joe runs his hand over his face and blinks a couple times before reaching for his phone to scroll through Instagram for what must be the 8th time over the past forty-five minutes. The same amount of time his now wife has been holed up in that damn bathroom. He understands fully that this night means a lot to her, and it should. It’s her wedding night.
Their wedding night.
The first night they’ll spend together as husband and wife and consummate their marriage. His first time with her, and her first time, period. Outside of knowing Mariella, arguably, better than most, he knows for women in general that this milestone carries a lot of weight.
Rightfully so.
But the fact that it’s been almost an hour since he showered and exited the bathroom wearing only his boxers, Mariella rushing past him and locking the door so she could “get ready” and her still not being ready is reaching a point beyond understandable.
Shit, at this rate, it’s going to be time for them to check out.
He’s tried to keep himself busy outside of being on his phone, something that’s never really been his thing in the first place. Observed and studied every inch of the suite her parents paid for as one of their wedding “gifts.” Both he and Ri in agreement that when finances are better, they’ll go on an actual honeymoon.
God, he can’t wait to give her that.
Grabbed the remote and turned on the TV as he shifted up the bed, leaning into the headboard while he watched some random ass show that only held his attention for a few minutes. Hell, he even grabbed the bible out the nightstand drawer and flipped the pages to the verse the pastor cited shortly before officially announcing them man and wife.
“What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder.”
But a good chunk of the time was eaten up by the uncharacteristic presence of anxiety. To say Joe is sexually experienced would be an understatement. He’s certainly gotten around in his almost thirty years on this earth. He knows exactly what he's doing between those sheets.
But never has he actually been intimate with someone that he loves. That he’s in love with. That he’s wanted nothing more than to make happy in all the ways possible.
This is Ri.
His Ri.
His wife.
Beyond that, there’s the pressure of being the one to take her virginity. If someone told him five years ago that that would be something she’d bestow and trust him—of all people—with, he’d never in a million years believe them.
Mariella has always been immensely special to him. His desire to protect and keep her safe from any and all bad things has been present since they were kids. Sparked largely by her naivety and innocence. And it’s only increased exponentially since they transitioned from friends to lovers and now husband and wife.
He knows better than anyone her trauma when it comes to relationships. Of spending so long wanting to find and be in love, to ever feel even ready or wanting enough to share such a sacred level of intimacy with another man.
Joe just can’t believe he ended up being that man.
His oath to love, protect, and take care of her will extend to the end of time—and then some.
And it all starts tonight.
“Okay!” Her shout from the other side of the door drags his attention away from lingering trepidation. “I—I think I’m ready.”
Joe clicks the lock button on this phone, waiting until it shuts off entirely, before he reaches and places it on the nightstand.
He won’t be needing it.
“Yeah?”
“Mmmhmm,” she sings, making him crack a small smile. She’s always so fucking theatrical.
He rolls his shoulder, reaching to let his hair down, already knowing that’s her preference despite also knowing he’ll need to tie it back before the night is over. Can’t have it in the way when he finally makes his way between her thick ass thighs to taste that pretty ass pussy. “So why don’t you bring your fine ass out then so I can see you?”
He plans to do a hell of a lot more than just see, but one thing at a time.
Joe snaps the hair tie against his wrist and rubs the tip of his nose with his thumb before a new sound fills the otherwise silent hotel room.
Music.
Because Ri wouldn’t be Ri if she didn’t have some sort of music to accompany what he knows for her is probably one of the biggest moments of her life thus far.
If not thee biggest.
A familiar, classic tune that makes all the sense, but it’s when the door is pushed open with loud, excessive force in conjunction with the three guitar notes at the beginning of Let’s Get In On by Marvin Gaye that makes his smile widen.
For several reasons.
Mari stands in the doorway, arms spread, palms planted on the jambs as she slowly twirls them thick ass hips of her. His eyes drink in the sight of her. The white, lace two piece lingerie set that leaves little to the imagination, her fat pussy lips almost swallowing the thin material to the point where it’s barely visible. He can only imagine what her ass looks like from the back. The top isn’t much better. Joe can make out the outline of her dark, pebbled nipples, her breast lifted and shoved together. Her stunning brown skin carries a glow that exceeds the usual as well as shimmer across her chest making her complexion glimmer and sparkle. Her hair that he knows she sacrificed a damn near whole day at the salon to get washed, blown out, and silk pressed for their wedding is down and brushes past her shoulders and chest.
But despite the salivating worthy sight of so much of that fine ass body on full display for him, it’s the smile on her bare face and the way she playfully twirls around that does something to him. Sometimes he envies her. How she goes through life with such unwavering optimism and light. There are no bad days with her.
Just happy days.
Some of his best.
He leans over, eyes darkening and voice lowering. “Come here.”
She bites down on her bottom lip, of course, taking her sweet time to continue to whine and tease him with the hypnotic view of her twirling hips. But the minute she’s close enough, he yanks her onto his lap. Joe’s eyes shut as he breathes in the scent of her. There’s no doubt in his mind that she tastes just as good as she always smells.
Mariella brings her hands to his shoulders and gestures down to her lingerie set. “You like it?”
“You know I do,” he answers. His hands smooth down her back, thumb fiddling with her bra strap as he kisses her shoulder. “It’s a shame I’m gonna end up ripping it off you in about five minutes.”
“Joseph Leati Anoa’i, you better not!” She gasps as he nestles his nose in the crook of her neck, eyes closing once more from the feel of her so close to him. Nothing is better than being with her. Nothing. “This is my wedding night lingerie. I won’t have you desecrate what will be a collectors item.”
“Fine. Whatever you want,” he agrees. He knows when to pick and choose his battles with her. Joe places another tender kiss to her jaw, his hands moving to her waist as he focuses on her. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” She whispers, batting her lashes, voice dipping suggestively. “Now, I believe it’s time for us to do the nasty.”
“Hmm.” He travels his gaze over her, hiking her up higher on his lap. “How nasty you trying to get, Mariella?”
She shakes her head, grasping at his jaw while he continues to roam every inch of her, as if trying to mark the territory he plans to explore fully and thoroughly throughout the night.
And for the rest of his life.
“It’s Ri.” She dips her head, ghosting her lips over his, her voice a soft, teasing whisper. “Mrs. Anoa’i, if you’re nasty.”
The speed in which he kisses her is inhuman. Joe fully recognizes that there’s very little easing into things. It's evident in the way he kisses her with hunger, desire, and desperation that’s grown with each passing day as their wedding date grew closer.
It took him a while to accept that he no longer saw his now wife as his adopted little sister. That she certainly wasn’t the little girl who always tagged along with him and BJ. That she was a grown woman. A grown woman with nice ass titties he’s currently palming in his big hands and a nice round ass he’s visualized more than once bouncing off his dick while he gives her backshots, her kinky coils fisted in his hand as he talks her through it.
Yes, finally freeing himself from unnecessary shackles of roles no longer relevant has definitely made this buildup something worth looking forward to. Mariella slowly grinding against him prompts him to growl against her mouth when he flips them so that she’s flat against the mattress, his big body hovering over hers.
And the sight is something to behold.
Never has he seen someone as beautiful as Mariella.
Their next kiss is slow, tender, her hands on his cheeks as her lips stretch into a bashful smile.
“No one has ever looked at my the way you do.”
Something thumps in his chest.
He lowers his head, forehead pressed against hers. “And no one else ever will.”
Joe has always been a man of his word, and regardless of it being traditional, pre-written vows cited in front of close friends and family, he meant every word.
Till death to them part.
“Baby,” she murmurs against his mouth after a few minutes of continued making out. That borderline unbearable discomfort from his growing erection further fueling his desire to make his way down her body and in between her soft thighs. Her fingers intertwined in the back of his head, gently caressing his scalp. “Move your leg.” She pouts as he kisses the corner of her soft ass lips. “It’s poking me.”
Joe stills for a moment, breaking their kiss to look down between their conjoined bodies.
He chuckles. Resumes kissing her and groping her breast, thumb playing with her nipple through the thin lace of her top. “That’s not my leg, baby.”
Mariella frowns into their kiss as he shifts his mouth to her cheek and jawline when she tilts her head down. “Well then what….” Joe is about to drag his mouth to her chest, salivating at the thought of freeing her breast from that pesky ass top when she gasps. “What the—” His efforts are completely stopped, however, when he feels her fingers tug at the waistband of his boxers. “Oh my God!”
Mariella’s hands lift to his chest as she pushes him off of her and quickly scampers to the edge of her bed, sitting on her knees. “Joe Bear!” He sits up on his elbows to see her eyes as wide as saucers. “Did you use the hotel soap? I told you it was bad for you! You should have listened to me because now you’re having an allergic reaction!”
Joe frowns and does his best to ignore the way his cock throbs at the sight of her titties dangerously close to spilling out her top. He was so close. “What?”
He sits up as she climbs off the bed and starts rushing over to the bathroom. “Come on. Throw something on. We’ve gotta go to the ER!” She stops, holding his pants and looking up with an expression of wonder. “I wonder if Patricia is working tonight.”
He closes his eyes. The way she’s on a first name basis with the fucking staff at the ER is both insane and yet makes all the sense in the world. If the hospital had a reward system, her ass would be a VIP member.
Lifelong.
“Put these on!” She shouts, tossing his dress pants at him as he sits up and hisses at the discomfort of his neglected erection. Mari comes to stand in front of him to grab his hand, “and don’t worry. I’ll hold your hand when they put the needle in your dick to make the swelling go down. I promise.”
It’s when she says that, however, that Joe just knows this is about to be a fucking mess.
Mariella frowns and looks at their still conjoined hands when she tries to turn away, but he tightens his grip, keeping her standing before him.
Her gaze on him reflects the sense of urgency present in her voice. “Joe Bear, you gotta hurry up. If we wait too long, they might have to amputate it!”
“Ri.” This damn girl and her fucking over the top, irrational ass beliefs. “We don’t need to go to the ER.”
Her eyes widen as she yanks her hand away. “What do you mean we don’t have to go? Joe, you’re having an allergi—”
“Mariella,” he cuts through, already knowing that his rare use of her full name will shut her up. For now, at least. “I’m not having an allergic reaction. It’s just an erection.”
She blinks twice, sticking her neck out just enough to accompany the way she nods to herself. Or him. One can never really tell with her. “An engorged erection because of the allergic reaction.”
“For fuck’s sake,” he curses. “Ri. This is just me. I don’t know what the fuck to tell you.”
“Language,” she chides. He rolls his eyes as she leans back and eyes him skeptically. “What do you mean it’s just you?”
“I mean, it’s just me,” he repeats. Joe runs his hand through his hair. “I’ve got a big dick. I don’t know what else to tell—”
“Wait a minute,” she interrupts. He watches the way she shuts her eyes and takes a deep breath before looking at him like he suddenly just grew another head. Granted, in her eyes, maybe he did. “What do you mean that’s just you?” Opening his mouth is a waste of time as she points to his lap, dick still just as hard as it was five minutes ago. Just as painful, too. “You mean to tell me that’s normal for you?”
He looks from side to side, answering like it’s the simplest fucking thing in the world. “Yes.”
She must stare at him for a good thirty seconds before moving closer to him once more, fingers reaching for the waistband of his boxers. Joe shakes his head as she almost cautiously angles her head just enough so she can catch a peek. And the minute she does, the loudest gap emits from her mouth as she jumps back like she’s just been burnt.
“What the hell is that, Joe?” If her eyes were wide before, they’re damn near about to explore out of her head now, as she slaps her hand over her mouth. “Why is your penis so big?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose for the umpteenth time tonight. And here it goes.
She’s pacing across the floor in front of him, talking to either himself, herself, or maybe both.
“Dicks are not supposed to look like that, okay?” He leans back on his palms as she turns to direct her next statement directly to him, her voice jumping an octave or two, as it normally does when she spirals like this. “They only look like that in porn, and even then it’s probably prosthetics and photoshop!”
He frowns. “How do you photoshop a video?”
Naturally, she ignores his question and instead issues her own ridiculous ass question. “Are you absolutely sure that’s normal? Like maybe you need to see a specialist!”
“Pretty sure I don’t.”
An athlete all of his life, Joe has had his fair share of doctor’s appointments, check-ups, physicals, and everything under the sun. If no medical professional has ever said anything to him, he’s pretty sure that he’s fine, and Ri is just being…..Ri.
She gasps, looking away as if breaking the fourth wall. “We’re going to have to have a sexless marriage.”
“Ri—”
“We’ll have to adopt an adorable little baby who has a complexion closer to mine and ears as big as yours to make sure no one ever suspects the truth.” Another loud, sharp gasp makes him cut his eyes to the ceiling as hers land on him. “We’ll have to get a surrogate.”
“Ri, you’re acting ridiculous right now.”
“You know what’s ridiculous?” She marches up to him, angrily gesturing to his crotch. “You thinking you’re putting that—that thing anywhere near me let alone in me!”
He sits up and hunches over, erection gradually settling as time passes, as if recognizing space and time is needed to accommodate her spazzing. “What did you think you were feeling when we would makeout before?”
Because Lord knows there have been at least a few occasions when things got heated between them to the point where he felt like he was going to explode in his pants. And most of the time she was straddling his lap so how she hadn’t felt something prior to now that indicated he was on the bigger side is beyond him.
“I don’t know!” She throws her hands up. “Certainly not dickzilla!” Joe follows the back of her, attempting to not focus too much on the jiggle of her ass when she walks over to grab one of the complimentary water bottles off the coffee table. Unnecessary huffing sounds accompanying her shuffling back over to him. “Joseph, my brother-husband in Christ, you don’t understand. I can barely stick a Super Plus tampon up there without blinking back tears.” She lifts up the water bottle and points to the cap. “My vagina is like this.” He has to stop himself from rolling his eyes, doing his best to not show just how utterly ridiculous he finds this whole thing. She then flips the bottle and gestures to the bottom of said bottle. “Your dick is like this!” She throws it to the side as she opens his mouth to scold her as it bumps against the table and rolls away near the TV. “Do you see the dilemma? It’s not gonna fit.”
“Are you done?”
And he knows she’s nearing the tail end of the climax with this whole episode when she starts to whine and stomp. “I’m gonna end up on Sex Sent Me to the ER.”
“Oh my God, come here.” Joe reaches for her arm and tugs her between his spread legs as he sits at the edge of the bed. He eases his hands down to her waist while she continues to pout and frown, looking down at the floor. “Mariella, we don’t have to do anything tonight if you’re not ready.”
His honest reassurance must take her by surprise. She lifts her eyes to his, mouth set into a frown as she blinks several times. Like she's trying to take in what he just said. “but...but it’s our wedding night…”
“And?” Joe shakes his head and pulls her even closer as she settles her hands on his shoulders. “Ri, I didn’t marry you just so we can have sex. I love you, and I respect this is a big step for you. Just because you’re my wife doesn’t mean you have to force yourself into doing something you’re not ready for.”
Perhaps he should have made that clearer ahead of time, but Joe was honestly under the impression that she knew he would wait for her as long as she needed. It’s a strange sort of space to be in for someone who primarily dated women in the past solely because of their ability to match his high sex drive. And Lord knows he desires Ri in every way imaginable, has gotten himself off countless times at the thought of fucking her. But his love for her will always outweigh everything else, so wherever her comfort zone is, is where he’ll meet and hold her hand until she’s ready to progress further.
“It’s not—” She interrupts, shaking her head. “I want this, Joe. I’m ready. I am, I promise. I just.” He kisses her inner wrist, again inhaling the alluring scent of whatever body oil she’d used right as she takes a deep breath. “I can do this.” Her hands shift to his face as she kisses him, his own hands dropping to her ass, giving a gentle squeeze. She smiles against him, pulling back and biting down on her bottom lip. “I just need to warm up.”
He frowns. “Warm up?”
Mariella turns and rushes to the bathroom where Joe realizes the music was still playing—Sexual Healing—the sound most likely obscured and faded out by her mini panic attack.
“Ri, what are you—”
He closes his eyes.
This damn girl.
Joe releases yet another heavy sigh as the music transitions from one classic to another, the latter, however, being the wildest shit he’s heard in some time.
Eye of the Tiger
But it’s a short lived time as he watches Ri stand in front of the mirror, bouncing up and down on the soles of her feet as he’s done himself a few times over the years.
When trying to get into game mode.
“I can do this,” she says to herself, nodding and rolling her shoulders. “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”
“Mariella.” If she doesn’t turn that damn music off and come get in the bed so they can just go to sleep. “Turn off—”
“Not now, Joe Bear, I’m training!”
“Training for wh—”
Another question interrupted when she switches to another song.
The familiar opening of the Rocky theme song as she transitions to pretending she’s boxing, bouncing from side to side with the fucking sound effects of her huffing and puffing like she’s on the brink of an asthma attack.
And knowing her ass, she probably is.
“Ri, if you don’t sit your ass down before you get us kicked out this damn hotel.” It’s a miracle no one’s knocked at the door—or wall—yet from her loud ass music and unnecessary dancing.
“Halfway through, hubby!”
Halfway?
“I’m going to bed,” he mutters, standing up and moving to pull back the blankets when she rushes into the bedroom, phone in hand.
“Not yet! I’m almost ready.” Joe stands with his arms crossed as she messes around with her phone before yet another song is added to this whole unnecessary ass scene.
And the minute “Everybody dance now” screeches into the room, he’s back to peeling back the blankets while she starts to do lateral lunges in the middle of the damn floor followed by quick, rapid squats with awful ass form.
“Gotta get loose,” she pants, transitioning to doing the running man. It’s only then that he simply shakes his head and smiles, running his hand over his face. The whole thing is actually comical as fuck, and mostly because she’s 100% serious right now.
This is just….this is his Ri.
“I’m about to turn the light off.”
“No!”
Her shout is followed by her—when the fuck did she even switch to the Macarena?—running and jumping on the bed. Quickly moving to all fours, her ass up in the air, as she looks over at him. “I’m ready.”
If not for the hilarious, dramatic way she says 'ready,' he’s certain his dick would have jerked from the way she wagged her ass.
He keeps his focus on her as he dips one knee into the mattress that groans under the weight of his addition. “Ri…”
“Oh shoot, wrong position.” She sucks her teeth and Joe continues to observe with confusion as she drops to her stomach and instead rolls onto her back. Confusion that quickly morphs into returned exasperation when she lifts her legs in the air, holding them up by her ankles, making strained noises followed by an out of breath. “Okay, now I’m ready.”
And while he was previously ready to go to bed, his eyes flicking towards her legs make his jaw clench at the sight of her pussy lips having been completely swallowed the thong. That desire revived and sensation of tightness in his boxers returning.
Only Ri could make him bounce back and forth between disbelief, humor, and now lust in a span of five minutes.
Her hold over him is diabolical.
“Wait!”
Except the screeching of the tape sounds when she goes to untangle herself from the position, making an “oof” sound when she accidentally rolls over off the bed and onto the floor from the other side. Joe starts to round said bed to check on her when she lifts her hand with a thumbs up. “I’m okay!”
Joe tilts his head back and rolls his shoulders.
On second thought, maybe they should just call it a night.
“Joe Bear,” she huffs, climbing back onto the bed. “Grab your phone.”
He blows out a breath, shifting so that his hands are on his hips. “For what, Ri?”
She groans loudly and throws up her hands, sitting on her knees. “So I can record my last will and testament.”
“Ri.”
“And whatever you do, do not let that lil’ colorist Alexandra Shipp play me in the biopic. Keke will do just fine.”
“Mariella.”
a/n : before anyone asks, yes, they did end up consummating their marriage that night. yes, mariella's dramatic ass absolutely made joe push her out in a wheelchair the next morning. and yes, she blasted 'i just had sex' by lonely island on the drive back to their apartment.
she also may have played it on repeat when they got home and said she was on "bed rest" for the next three days.
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author’s note: was feeling crappy about how long updates for 'without you' take and decided to write this. it was an on the spot thing, so don't be expecting anything spectacular. also, i wanted it to be fluffy and angsty, but idk, reader and joe so nasty idk how to write them not being nasty. 😭
pairing: plussized!mistress!black!reader x roman reigns (joe)
warnings: angst. fluff. smut. vaginal penetration. oral (male and female receiving) dirty talk. unprotected sex. slight anal play. infidelity. they're just freaks. idk what else to say.
word count: 2.5k+
song inspo: ❝don't forget about us❞ by the mariah carey
credit: photos from pinerest // dividers by @/cafekitsune
Joe’s eyes flip open as he lowers his head just enough to focus on you. Blue locking with brown, but it’s the way his long, dark hair lays over his shoulders and across his chest that temporarily distracts you. Flashbacks of those beautiful tresses intertwined and locked between your fingers as you rode his face and once more as he fucked you up against the bathroom counter upon his arrival to the hotel exciting you for the next round.
Never mind the brief pang of soreness in between your legs. Inner thighs still damp, wet, and sticky from the latest round. 69. Hence the way you’re laid on your side, head propped up by your elbow towards the edge of the bed while he’s sat up against the headboard. The cream sheets covering his lap but not hiding the outline of his thick dick that you can already tell is slowly starting to harden once more.
Good.
You wanna feel him come in your mouth at least one more time before you two call it a night.
“What?”
His deep voice breaks you from the silence of the room and swirling of NSFW thoughts.
You roll your eyes. “I said you’re shy.” Your fingers tap against the sheets that you lazily pull to cover a portion of your exposed hip solely to shield your nude body from the chill of the room. The heat accumulated through frenzied fucking is starting to wane. “It’s cute.”
He chuckles and lifts his arm, one hand behind his head as he reclines deeper against the headboard you’re almost certain is one more round away from putting a hole in the wall. You make a mental note to tell him to put a pillow behind it before you two go at it again. “And you got this from what?”
“It’s an observation.” You shrug. “I mean, I noticed it a while ago, but I was watching you tonight interact with some of your fans—”
“Emphasis on some.”
A pause is taken solely to store the comment away for later revisiting. “And I could tell you were out of your element. Almost uncomfortable. You’re clearly introverted.”
Given that you’ve been to a handful of his shows already, it’s an observation you’d made relatively early on. But something about tonight, seeing the almost indecision he presented with in some of the interactions with fans like yourself that were granted a chance to meet him, it more or less confirmed it.
“Don’t worry,” you added, bitting down on your bottom lip. “I think it’s cute.”
“Cute?”
You adjust your body, fully aware of how his eyes temporarily shift to your dark nipples with a renewing hunger. “Yeah, I mean, it’s not often you meet a fine ass man with a big dick and every reason to be a cocky son of a bitch have your disposition. It’s nice.”
Joe makes a sound, eyes shutting once more. “I like to get a read on people before I open up, I guess.”
“That makes sense. I can’t relate, but—”
“Yeah, shy is a word I would never use to describe you. Not really me, either, but—”
“Oh, you’re definitely shy, Mr. Anoa’i,” you snort, pointing to yourself as if he can see it. “But me? Naw. For what? I’m fine as fuck. I have no reason to be.”
And neither does he, but that’s just him, so you’ll leave it be.
You watch the way his eyes open and full lips—those same lips you can still feel sucking and slurping on your clit like he’d been waiting for it all day—stretch into a sly smile. “You always been this confident?”
“Hell yeah.” His grin widens, as you list it off with all the ease in the world. “I’m pretty as hell, ass fat, titties big, and my pussy is top tier?” It’s that last one that makes him chuckle, something flashing in those blue contacts that, right now, you’re not a fan of. “Baby, God didn’t make me this fine for me to be on some shy shit.”
Nor insecure, because if there’s one thing you’ve never been able to relate to is big girls struggling with body insecurity. You understand it, sure, but it’s never once been a struggle of yours. You’ve never once looked in the mirror, fully clothed or butt ass naked, and didn’t like what you saw. Maybe…maybe once or twice, but nine times out of ten, nothing has ever reflected back except a bad bitch.
And when people make comments about fat girls and bigger bodies, it always makes you laugh, snort, roll your eyes, or a combination of them all. Because at the end of the day, no man has ever put you out of the bedroom, and no one ever will cause the fuck you look like granting a lame ass nigga premier pussy when his dick ain’t even big enough to not fall out when you bouncing on it?
“That’s one of the first things that attracted me to you, you know.” You look over at him as he starts to dance those talented fingers of his up your calf. “Your confidence.”
“Not my tits?”
“Those, too.”
You playfully kick him. He chuckles. “I’m serious. I love how you’re unapologetically yourself. Like you don’t give a fuck what anyone else thinks.”
“That’s cause I don’t.” Never have. Never will. As long as you’re good with you, your mama is proud of you, and you do right in the eyes of the Lord, everyone else is irrelevant. “And neither should you, you know.”
Your interest in wrestling prior to ever even meeting Joe was nothing close to the fanatic level. You still enjoyed it as an adult, but not nearly as much as you did when you were a kid. But you knew enough to know about the basic facts and major storylines. Even more, you knew enough to know how massively pushed Joe, Roman, was being right now. Unfortunately, the push against him by the fans seems just as strong.
If not stronger.
It was one thing for him to briefly mention certain things, or for a clip to come across your Instagram feed. But it was entirely different to see these things in person. To hear them.
Some of the cruel, hurtful, awful things hurled at him. And if it’s not words, then it’s items. And the boo’s. God, it’s hard for you to tell which is worse and which pisses you off more. On more than one occasion you’ve had to stop yourself from catching a charge and causing a scene. You’ve always had the golden rule of never ever fighting over a man, but they were pushing it.
And it wasn’t even for the traditional reasons women throw hands behind their ain’t shit niggas. It was….it was just wrong. To treat Joe the way some of these “fans” do is borderline inhumane. It makes you sick to your stomach.
But if you feel this way as someone who hasn’t even known the man for a whole year, who’s not even the one being crucified the way he is, you can’t imagine how it must be for him.
He doesn’t talk about it a whole lot—save that lil’ comment from a few minutes prior—but you don’t know any human being who wouldn’t be at least a little affected by such hate.
Especially when it’s unwarranted.
“Only miserable ass people with dry pussies and micro penises come at someone so hard for just doing their damn job,” you continue, moving to sit up on the bed, reaching for his shirt to pull over your body. It’s more than certain to be ripped off before the end of the hour, but there’s something about his scent….hence why you may or may not have started to hoard a collection of his items back at your place. “It’s pathetic, and it says everything about them and nothing about you, Joe.”
His gaze remains on you as you climb across the bed and straddle his lap. His hands are on your hips as yours go to play with the ends of his long hair. “I’m serious.”
He chuckles quietly. “So are they.”
You’re quick with the rebuttal, flicking his chest. “Well, they’re fucking idiots, and fuck you look like factoring in the opinions of the musty and unloved?”
The smile you hadn’t realized briefly disappeared is returned. “The what?”
“I thought it was maybe just the show we met at, but these folks stank. Are they all allergic to Dial and deodorant or something?” It’s both a rhetorical and serious question. As someone who’s always prided yourself on smelling good, the constant assault by the funk of these unwashed people will always be the biggest “con” of attending his shows. It’s why you mostly prefer to stay backstage these days. “Just nasty. Literally and figuratively.”
Once more, he shakes his head and lifts his hands to your back, tugging you closer. Your arms wrap around his neck as his smile dims and eyes narrow softly. “You’re really good at this, you know?”
Your brow lifts as you once again start to twirl curly locs around your fingers. “You’re gonna have to be more specific, big boy. I’m good at a lot of things.”
“That’s true.” He offers zero disagreement before supplying the answer. The delivery surprisingly soft for his deep voice. “At making me feel better.”
It takes you by surprise only for a second. Talking to people is something that’s always come natural and easy to you. Offering encouragement, however, in an effective and actually helpful way has never been as simple as some might think. Far too often people think that they’re being helpful only to be making things minimally to significantly worse. You’ve always done your best to avoid causing unintended harm, some of which has been helped greatly by your job. Kids always require a higher level of delicacy than adults.
But you’d also be lying to yourself if you tried to deny that there’s always been something so….natural about speaking with Joe. Easy. The conversation never grows stale and the flow never feels stagnant. Conversations with men in general have always been hit or miss for you. Far too often, whatever appeal existed is squashed the moment they open their mouth and say some stupid shit.
Not Joe.
He’s as well spoken as he is thoughtful. That subtle pause before he answers indication of actual pondering vs automatic verbal release. You’ve always appreciated that about him. That he actually thinks before he speaks. A rare characteristic to find with men. Especially fine ass men.
I wonder if that’s one of the things his wi—
Almost instantly, you shove it away. That thought that often tries to force its way to the surface, having found success a few times. But the more time you spend with Joe, the closer you two become, the easier it is to silence said thoughts.
And maybe, just maybe, you’ll be able to silence the voice entirely.
“Well….” You trail off in conjunction with your fingers trailing down his chest with one hand, the other reaching behind you. “There are several ways I know how to make you feel better.”
His gaze shifts and jaw clenches when you find him. Warm and pulsing in your palm, your thumb glides over the slit on his dickhead. Your saliva production quadruples at the anticipation of having him in your mouth and pussy once more. “You wanna clarify?”
You start to gently stroke him up and down, aiding in the revival of his erection that’s almost entirely returned.
Except, once again, you’re reminded that this man matches your energy in a way no one else has before. He eases his hand under the shirt, reaching and playing with your titties before returning down south to dance his fingers down your pelvis, stopping just when he’s about to spread your pussy lips apart.
“The thing that makes you feel just as good.”
His smug statement, however, draws your playful glare as you continue to work your hand around his thick length. “Don’t get cock—”
A sharp gasp escapes your mouth when his other hand moves to the back of your head, his fingers intertwined in your kinky coils you pulled up and out of the way the minute he told you to get on your knees before you two even made it to the shower. You bite down on your lip, feeling your pussy flutter and pulse when he roughly yanks you towards him. “Exactly.” Your eyes flutter shut as you start to writhe on top of him when his other hands continues to toy with your slick opening. “Stop talking and start sucking.”
The joy at his command is matched only by the glee you feel at having your desire fulfilled. He doesn’t need to tell you twice.
You pull away and tug his shirt off, tossing it on the floor before you twist your body to the position that preceded the brief respite. You scoot and slide your body back as much as you can, feeling the way he also begins to ease down on the bed so he’s on his back. Your eyes gleam with hunger and need as you lick your lips at the sight of his pretty ass dick. Fully erect, tip flushed, and pre-cum seeping out the slit.
A muffled groan is released as you lean over and travel the length of his cock with your nose, inhaling the scent of him. Of both of you. Your mixed, mingled juices. The tip of your tongue traces around his dickhead and up the base as you collect as much of the remnants from the previous round before getting right to it
“Fuck, that’s it,” he groans, and it’s music to your ears. Something about being able to bring a man to such a vulnerable place while simultaneous getting off from the pleasure you receive from giving head is always gon’ be just the thing that does it for you. “Keep going, baby.”
You moan, mouth full of his dick, releasing him to kiss and suck on his balls. “Hmm. Does that feel good, big boy? You like the way I suck this big dick?”
You’re rewarded with a slap and jiggle to your ass that makes you smile before you return his length back into your mouth, eyes shutting and watering when he hits the back of your throat as you bob your head up and down, deep throating him.
“I fucking love it.” You wiggle your ass back against him when he spreads your cheeks and his tongue swipes a single line up your ass crack, tip of said tongue circling your hole. It entices another moan following the feel of his fingers spreading your pussy lips as he returns the favor, burying his face in your cunt, inhaling and groaning. “God, you taste so fucking good.”
You smile, drool seeping out the corner of your mouth as you continue to work him with your mouth. Once more a respite is evoked only as he moves his big arms around your hips and ass, clearly getting and putting you in place. “Show me how good, daddy,” you moan, palms flat and gripping at his thighs as he pulls you back so that you’re smothering his face. Good. “Eat my pussy, and tell me how good it tastes. How much you love it.”
SYNOPSIS𑁤 for the past few years, karina's prayer has been simple. to meet a nice man, settle down, and start a family. she thought she'd found that. maybe she has. if only she knew beforehand that the devil answers prayers, too.
WARNINGS𑁤 dark romance. unhealthy relationship dynamics to the max. unhealthy attachment. toxicity through and through. stalking. topics pertaining to mental health struggles. smut. unprotected sex. multiple positions. breeding kink. digital penetration. oral (f receiving). blink and you miss it ass play. rough sex. dubious consent.
WORDS𑁤 eight thousand, eight hundred, and some change (8k+)
PAIRING𑁤 obsessed!romanreigns x chubby!blackoc
CREDIT𑁤 photos from pinterest and twitter. title graphic by me. heart dividers by @enchanthings and mdni banner by @oseschoices
SONG INSPO𑁤 ❝every breath you take❞ by the police
AUTHOR’S NOTE𑁤 if you're new around here, this is based off a set of asks i've answered over the past few months. this weekend was horrible for me mental health wise, so i just opened a doc, and this is what we got....idek, man. also, may this kind of "love" never find any of you, and if it does, call the swat team or the cia. try to put him in rice. idk.
The soft glow of the crescent moon outside is set against the onyx blanket of night, riddled with glimmering stars that pulse and beam. The faint humming of the AC unit is set against the TV that’s set at a volume low enough to where its audible for her to hear, but in the grand scheme of things, it's truly nothing more than background noise for the chaos and commotion that is her head.
Karina rolls onto her back and closes her eyes. Her hands run over the soft, dark sheets, the smooth, cool touch under her fingertips and short nails reminding her of the fact that she recently changed her bedding. A usual task, but one that was done for reasons other than what has been the case for the past almost two years.
It brings a frown to her face, the way her hand is able to explore the span of her queen sized bed, met with nothing more then 300 thread count instead of something else, someone else, the absence making her fingers flex and itch.
The decision to leave her phone, screen up, on the dresser, and across the room was an intentional one. As was her ensuring that the phone was right side up. The glow of a notification illuminating just enough in the dark of the room to inform her when an alert has arrived. Twice now she’s been able to resist temptation, but it’s the third spotlight that diverts her focus from the TV and has her reconsidering.
She’d set an intention for herself. Surrounded herself with nothing but reminders, colorful sticky notes covering half of the anchored mirror in her bathroom and a notepad sitting on her nightstand with all of the reasons. Reminders to stand strong and firm, but for each item she can recount on said list, it’s just as easy for her to create counterpoints.
Her brain and heart at battle with neither willing to concede anytime soon.
It deepens her frown and the weight in her chest that’s only grown heavy over the past two days since she sent her text and silenced his notifications.
But the heart has a way of finessing autonomous control, creeping in and taking over without one even realizing it. Karina is reminded of such when she’s only a few inches away from her dresser, hand reaching for her phone that’s gone dark, the time of lighting from the most recent notification long past.
She stops herself and stares at the screen for longer than she’d like to admit. Wills herself to close her eyes and instead shakes her head.
“I can do this,” she whispers. Hand scrunching her short, silk nightgown, she turns to climb back into bed, grabbing the remote and shutting off the TV.
She needs to try to get some sleep.
But Karina also knows that her brain won’t allow her such joy, thus her getting up once more, this time to head to the kitchen and grab a melatonin. She hasn’t slept well all week, and with tomorrow being Saturday, thus her day off, Karina fully intends to take advantage of her clear schedule.
At least she did, because all actions are halted when she hits the switch to light up the hallway and finds a partially unexpected detour right outside of the kitchen.
She stands still, completely unmoving, eyes never ripping from the sight before her.
“What are you doing here, Roman?”
Once upon a time, her initial question would be a different one. Less of the what and more of the how. How for every attempt she made to draw the line in the sand between them, he always seemed to find a way to bypass said line before she could even complete it.
It started off with little things. The type of gestures that make women swoon and sigh. Flowers sent to her job once a week, to the point where the staff, even Dr. Green, had made a joking comment in between patients about Karina scoring a “good” one. Calls at the start of her day while she moved around her bathroom and room getting ready for work only to be repeated later in the evening as she laid in bed, sometimes on FaceTime with him until she fell asleep and only awoke in the middle of the night to her phone at less then 50%.
He always wanted to see and be around her. Even on days where she was physically drained, cramping, or just not feeling well and decided to skip the gym. Despite her many protests that she was fine, he’d still show up at her apartment, often wielding a host of “get well soon” supplies that consisted of all her favorites. Things she’d mentioned as far back as the impromptu lunch they shared together on the first day they met. Roman didn’t forget anything. To the point where it seemed almost abnormal, if not impossible.
He’d later share that through several routine evaluations while in the military, it’d been said he most likely has Hyperthymesia. She can still recall the way his mouth curved into a small smile at the confused look on her face.
“Most people call it photographic memory,” he explained. “Once I see, read, or even hear something, I never forget it.” His thumb brushed over her hand as they sat at a table tucked in the corner of the restaurant, an old Fleetwood Mac tune serving as background noise. Something twinkled in his eyes that made her stomach flip as his voice dipped but his enunciation never more clear. “I don’t forget anything.”
And he doesn’t.
She thought it impressive, felt deeply moved at how he’d, regardless of it simply being the way his brain is wired, never allowed any opportunity to be missed where he could show her how attentive he was.
How much he cared.
From ensuring the delivery of her favorite variation of flowers—roses, tulips, and forget-me-nots—to tracking down the vinyls, items collected since childhood, that she’d been searching for high and low since childhood.
He seemed to make the impossible possible, even if she hadn’t asked him to. She didn’t ask him to do much at all. He just did.
And she appreciated it.
What she gradually started to not appreciate, however, were….other things.
Growing up in Virginia Beach meant there was no shortage of military men, some of which she’d briefly but never seriously entertained. Mostly in her early twenties. Thus, Roman having a bit of a temper didn’t shock her. She expected it. So long as, one, it was never aimed towards her, and two, that he could control it. That first part has never been an issue. The second part though….not so much.
She’d understood it the first time she saw it. A group of silly, young high school boys who’d nearly knocked her over while skateboarding on the board walk. Their scoff and dismissal of Roman’s gruff “watch it” resulting in him snatching up one of the boys by his collar. Barking at him to apologize to Karina.
That was fine.
But then a couple days later, Karina arrived at the gym a little earlier than planned and opted to not wait for Roman. In the midst of grabbing a set of weights, she’d been shocked to find some overly tanned, Jersey Shore extra douche bag had moved her bag to the side, along with her phone and water bottle that were sitting on the bench, and claimed it as his own.
Naturally, she’d tried to confront him about it, but he simply looked her over, scoffed and made a smartass comment about her hitting the treadmill instead. Karina was fully prepared to report him to the staff when out of nowhere came Roman. He’d yanked the bastard up so quickly, shoved him into the mirrored wall, and punched him so hard that the sickening crunch sound of his nose breaking was the only thing that broke her from the shock.
Karina reached for Roman’s wrist, instantly noticing how the enraged expression on his face melted almost immediately when her eyes locked with his. It was as if her single touch dragged him from 100 all the way back down to 0.
She’d been so nervous that he was going to get fired over what occurred, but it only resulted in a slap on the wrist and a ban for the man who learned very quickly, as the kids say these days, what FAFO really means.
But while Karina appreciated Roman defending her, as they laid in bed that night, sheets damp and clinging to their slick bodies, she attempted to talk to him.
Tried to explain that as nice as it was to have him feel so strongly about defending her, he didn’t have to. That she didn’t want him to end up getting himself into trouble one way or another because of her.
He wasn’t necessarily defensive, but he definitely was standing ten toes down on his commitment to defend her.
To her.
It was commitment that she would soon realize extended to areas and in ways she could have never anticipated.
He’s sitting on her sofa, legs spread, hands clasped together. Black hoodie, dark shorts, and his hair pulled back. Roman has always looked slightly older than his actual age, but in a way that works. Rugged yet handsome looks that few could pull off. He could.
He does.
Karina can’t, however, ignore the way she can tell he hasn’t been sleeping well. The darkness under his eyes confirm as much. For a moment, she feels bad, especially when she catches the glimpse of thin silver around his thick neck, his dog tags resting perfectly between his tatted chest.
She licks her lips, fully aware of the fact that he typically wears them when haunted by memories he can’t forget and a past she only knows bits and pieces about. Just that he joined the military when he was eighteen, him and his two closest friends. Mox and Seth.
That Roman eventually flew back stateside a number of years later, seat upgraded to First Class when it was learned he’d served. An announcement over the PA regarding said service and a round of applause to thank him for his service.
He returned home to fanfare.
But his two closest friends returned home in boxes with flags draped over their coffins that their family members sobbed over with unconsolable grief.
Karina would guess that Roman has some form of PTSD. He has to. No one serves in any form of the military, deploys overseas, experiences combat, and comes back the same person they were when they left. He carries scars she’ll never see, and it’s part of why she’s always done her best to be understanding. To be gentle and considerate with his struggles.
It's also why she suddenly is regretting initiating their most recent break.
Even if she knows it’s for the best.
“I miss you,” he finally answers. She closes her eyes and looks down, digging her toes into the soft, cream carpet.
I miss you, too.
Words she won’t allow herself to share aloud and instead forces herself to remember why she initiated said break following yet another one of his outbursts. She can hear the sirens, the flash of red, white, and blue cast against her face. The way she hugged herself as she gave her statement to one officer, the other talking to Roman who leaned against the patrol car with cavalier indifference. With a similair stance and not an ounce of concern or regret for the man who sat outside the ambulance, his busted lip, broken nose, and swollen eye being tended to by paramedics.
Karina knew he’d get off. A combat vet with enigmatic charisma and connections to law enforcement she still doesn’t fully understand. What would get most arrested or taken in always results in a slap on the wrist. It’s somewhat part of the culture in the 757. NAS Oceana and Training Support Center Hampton Roads, both located in Virginia Beach, are the largest bases of their kind in the world. The military have always received special treatment. She’d seen it with the two Navy guys she briefly dated before Roman, but never to the extent seen with Roman.
Like the time she decided to bite the bullet and attempt to file a restraining order against him, only for the cop who took the report ending up being someone Roman knew. An old friend from bootcamp.
A friend who tipped him off.
To this day, she hasn’t a clue what happened to said report.
It felt unheard of.
Though, to be fair, there’s very little she hadn’t seen or experienced before.
Since Roman Reigns entered her life.
Karina can still recall the day she stepped foot into the gym for the first time in years. The last time she’d attended was for a group class her friends talked her into attending. Hot Yoga.
She wasn't a fan.
It was the first and last time she’d allowed her car to pull into the parking lot that was always full no matter what time of day she drove past it. An unavoidable passing no matter which route she drove to work. But each time she sat at the light, only a turn away from ending her unspoken sabbatical, fingers tapping against her bedazzled steering wheel, she thought about it.
Thought about breaking her years long streak of avoiding what she always seemed to put off. It wasn’t even that she felt the need to lose weight. That she even wanted to. Years of hard work devoted to learning to love and embrace the curves she used to try to conceal with oversized hoodies and black stretch pants just to avoid the rolls caused by the skinny jeans all of her peers wore almost exclusively. Of realizing that not all bodies were meant to look the same. Karina came to recognize that her beauty never was and never will be dictated by the number on the scale. Let alone some outdated standard—like BMI—that was never meant to represent or factor in diversity.
She might not love her body all of the time, but she loves it most of the time, and that’s what matters most.
But that didn’t mean she couldn’t get in the habit of moving her body in a way that’s overall healthy and good for her. To feel good, because being freshly thirty with no kids yet and no potential prospects anywhere in sight, the disappointment was starting to set in. Disappointment she could tell was only a few more lonely nights away from morphing into depression.
Karina knew she had to make a change.
And so she laid in bed at night, scrolling through fitness videos from women who looked like her. Who proudly showed off their stretch marks and tummies that could jiggle instead of the textbook “skinny” fitness gurus she’d once idolized and prayed to look like one day as a naive preteen who didn’t know any better.
Karina even challenged herself to start off with beyond the basic thirty minute walk on the treadmill. It was part of the routine she’d put together based on almost two weeks of studying and research. But it wasn’t the most important thing. What was most important was walking past the row of treadmills, ellipticals, and other cardio based machines. It was blowing out a big breath and popping the strap of her bright orange sports bra that matched with the high waisted, tummy control and booty scrunch leggings. An two piece set that was minimally beyond her comfort zone but also the perfect outfit to test and stretch said comfort zone.
Karina popped in her pink ear buds before she got out the car, already had her curated workout playlist that’d started off with Bodak Yellow, and found that Jesus still answers prayer when she was able to land an empty bench not in use. A woman with headphones and long blonde hair she had pulled into a tight ponytail was Karina’s silent neighbor. It didn’t bother her though. She preferred the silence. It allowed her to focus on recalling the specific order in the set she’d studied and committed to memory.
Memorization felt like an insurance policy to avoid unintentional embarrassment.
Or injury.
And three songs in, the confidence arose in tandem with each slow, steady raise of the free weights in her hand. She felt good. She felt strong.
She was also doing it wrong.
Karina had as much confirmed when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She’d briefly dropped the weights to reply to a text from her mom, thus her head being down and not allowing her to see him approaching through the mirrored wall. Not that it would have made much of a difference. Her reaction would have been the same regardless.
It was hard for her to hone in on the specifics of what initially drew her in. Having to look up to meet his warm, hazel eyes and the soft, crooked smile on his handsome face. Full lips pulled back just enough to reveal a set of perfectly straight, white teeth. The way his massive body almost entirely eclipsed hers. The tight, black Under Armor muscle shirt clinging to every defined, hard, sculpted muscle on his body. And that were plenty. Intricate tattoos wrapped around both arms, and, as she would later find out, his chest as well. Karina was in the middle of removing her ear bud and roving her eyes over what was easily the most attractive man she’d ever seen when he upped the ante and chuckled.
“Sorry to bother you.” There was no denying the somersaults in her stomach at the sound of his smooth, deep voice. Tall, fine, and he had a sexy ass voice? Yeah…never a bother. Ever. “And I hate to be that guy, but…” The way he trailed off, the subtle movement of his jaw, and his tongue flicking against the hood of his mouth should not have made her thighs press together. “Your form is a little off.” And because having a perfect appearance and panty soaking voice wasn’t enough, he had to set the bar impossibly higher with a dash of flattery. “You’re doing great for a beginner though.”
Sincere or not, it was an effective add-on that also made her chuckle and nervously roll her eyes. “That obvious?”
Of course it was. This man looks like he lives, breathes, and eats the gym for a living. Far from a small gal, it's ridiculous how he towers over her in height and width. Nothing but pure muscle and brute strength wrapped around a solid frame. If there was anyone who would be able to point out someone clearly new at this, it would be him.
So much for doing a good job.
“Naw. Your form isn’t what made me notice you.” His smile softens, his eyes gleaming and twinkling with something that made her chest tighten. “It’s just what gave me an excuse to talk to you.”
And just like that, the tension eased, her smile revived with the same ease his smooth reply rolled off his tongue.
She offered her hand. “Karina.”
His gaze dipped down, Karina instantly overcome with a sense of warmth at the way his much larger hand eclipsed hers. Fully aware of the stroke of his thumb across her knuckles.
“Roman.”
Formal introductions led into a shared workout of sorts, even if he spent majority of the time helping and instructing her vs actually getting his own workout in. Naturally, one thing led to another, and she accepted his offer to join him for lunch.
She learned a lot that day. Learned that he was new in town and still had a few unopened boxes sitting around his house despite being moved in for over a month. That he’d recently accepted a job at the gym as a personal trainer after almost twenty years in the military. He didn’t say what branch or specify what exactly he did, and she didn’t ask. Something told her, however, in the way his eyes temporarily dropped to the table they sat at, that it was beyond just a desk job.
She guessed that he had combat experience and left it at that.
They must have sat at that restaurant for over an hour, and not once did the flow of the conversation stall. It continued to flow as naturally and organically as the smile that remained on her face the entire time they conversed. Even as he walked her to her car, palm on the hood of vehicle, eyes on her as she typed her number into his phone.
It was there in the parking lot as well, as he twisted a tendril of her dark coils between his long, thick fingers that she absolutely did not imagine elsewhere on—or in—her body, that he issued his proposal.
Offered to train her.
To be her personal trainer.
It, like him, took her by surprise. She decided to start implementing the gym into her life for solely self-care and maintenance purposes. She wasn’t looking to lose weight or to do anything to change how her body looked. She’d worked too hard to learn to embrace and love her curves to risk falling back into dangerous “thinspo” mindset and was thus ready to politely decline.
But then he brushed his rough, callous thumb across her cheek and offered to do it on his own time. Off the clock and without the need for her to modify her membership to include the training. Suggested a trade of sorts where in exchange for his training, she could help him learn his way around town. Like the small mom and pops restaurant on the corner of Independence and across the street from Greenbrier mall where they’d sat at for God knows how long.
And suddenly, it felt less like a step back and more of a step forward in the right direction. Like she’d finally figured out and landed on the best route to pursue.
So she accepted.
Karina sometimes believes that to be the day she sealed her fate, and if not that, then most definitely the night of their first, official date. He’d scored dinner reservations at Ruth Chris where they sat, like most of their outings outside of the gym, for a minimum of an hour. Long after meals were finished, and even then, she’d made it a habit of sorts to pick locations close to the beach. So they could walk the boardwalk together. Sometimes even along the grainy sand where she’d slide off her shoes and hold up the bottom of her skirt or dress to avoid the gentle waves that kissed the space where water met land.
It all culminated to that moment she reached for him as he turned to leave. After walking her to her door and reminding her to text him when she awoke the next morning, as he always did following one of their outings.
The minute her fingers enclosed around his wrist as he turned to look back at her. Karina was only able to part her lips a few mere centimeters before his hands were on her face, his mouth on hers, and her body on fire. She still hasn’t a clue when exactly the door was shut and locked, but she certainly recalls every single detail of that night.
The way he maneuvered his hand between her thighs, easily sliding her panties to the side as he pumped one, two, and three fingers inside of her until she came all over his hand. The way her lids fluttered watching how he licked them all off in front of her before guiding her to the kitchen where he propped her up on the counter and dropped to his knees. Her hands initially planted on the cool faux granite as he sucked and lapped at her pussy like it was the first and only thing he’d had to eat all day. As she came once more all over his face before they traveled once and then twice more.
By the end of the night, there was barely an inch of her apartment they hadn’t sullied. Clothes strewn all over. The aroma of sex lingering and seeped into the sheets that covered their nude, spent bodies.
It was hands down the best sex she ever had. That was easily one of the many things that had her hooked.
But as amazing as the sex is, it doesn’t and hasn’t overpowered the very many problems that have littered their relationship.
Because as sad as it might be, Roman getting violent and assaulting men who even so much as look at her for too long, has been the least of her worries.
No, those worried come in much larger, problematic forms.
Like the way she’s had to ask management at her apartment complex to change her locks. Twice. Both times having to jump through hoops, dancing around the real reason as to why. Unwilling to say it’s because despite Roman returning the key she’d given him, even after the changes, kept finding his way back into her place. Often already in her kitchen, making dinner for them when she arrives home from work.
Several times he’s welcomed himself into her apartment without her permission.
The Ring camera she put up at his strong recommendation following some stupid teenagers breaking into her apartment? Yeah. Changing the password only does so much. Again, he finds way to access her account.
It’s the way she’s lost count of how many times she’s tried to explain to him why this is all wrong, how he’s not respecting her boundaries, and every time he finds a way to justify his behavior or convinces her that said behavior isn’t as bad as it objectively is.
“I just can’t take you being upset with me, Mina.”
The nickname he’d adopted for her she’d once asked him about given her friends and family have always called her Rina. She couldn’t figure out where the ‘M’ was coming from.
“Because you’re mine,” he’d explained, twisting her coils as they lay in bed together in his place that he always referred to as theirs. Went as far as to already set aside room in his closet for her own stuff. Kept an extra pair of scrubs for her that he’d purchased on his own volition. “My Rina.”
It felt romantic at the time. Now she realizes just how serious he was.
When he said she’s his, he meant it.
Several of his obsessive actions over the almost two years that they’ve been together have all but proved it.
Like the time she attempted to get away from it all, agreeing to an impromptu girls trip with her closest friends down to the Dominican Republic. It was only the third time she’d been out of the country, the first two being with the man she was trying to get away from. Separation to allow for clarity. But changing all her passwords for the umpteenth time and disabling location tracking and sharing didn’t stop Roman from showing up. Sauntering in with all the suaveness at the restaurant she was at with her girlfriends like it was the most normal, romantic thing in the world.
A belief she might have unintentionally reinforced what with her leaving said restaurant and spending the night with him, effectively ending the supposed break they were on at the time.
Actions she got chewed up over from all ends, primarily from what she’s always coined the “Top Tier” of her friend group. Three friends she’s known the longest and hold the closest bonds with, all of whom have always been on varying ends of the spectrum as it pertains to Karina’s relationship with Roman.
Krista has always highlighted the obvious problems but overall expressed support.
Shiva doesn’t allow a week to go by without randomly announcing that she has “dibs” on being godmother and matron of honor.
Avril….Avril just might actually hate Roman. She hasn’t been a fan since the first obsessive incident Karina disclosed. She reminds Karina a lot of her mom. The woman who, as far back as Karina can remember, stressed to her the importance of never letting a man get away with shit. Completely unforgiving and unwilling to acknowledge any minimal or small slight as anything but egregious and intentional, Myra Patton leaves little to no room for shit when it comes to men. It’s why, in Karina’s opinion, her mom has been single for so long.
She understands having strong boundaries, but the scars from Myra’s tumultuous relationship with Lyle, Karina’s absentee/deadbeat dad, run deep and have sworn her mom off all men. Her wall is impossibly high, thus Karina sharing very little with Myra regarding her complicated relationship with Roman.
But then on the other end of the spectrum, there’s Karina’s dad. Hands down the first man in her life to hurt and disappoint her. Karina will never forget sitting on the porch steps with her backpack and suitcase packed. Swatting away flies and ignoring the scorching sun that blared down on her body and made sweat accumulate across her back, forehead, and in all the folds and creases of her body. She’d sometimes sit out there until nightfall and her mom finally forced her to come inside because he wasn’t coming.
He never showed up like he said he would, and by the time Karina hit her teenage years, she stopped expecting and wanting him to. These days, they only communicate on the major holidays and her birthday, where he’ll post on her Facebook timeline. Not even a text or phone call. She prefers it that way though. Is way past the point of yearning for his love.
It does make her wonder though. If the little girl inside of her who always felt neglected by her father and just wanted to feel wanted and desired in conjunction with her mother’s arms length approach and philosophy regarding love is what brought her to where she stands.
Somewhere in the middle unable to let go of Roman’s hand.
Unable to let go of him.
It makes her chest thud as she watches him rise from the sofa. Her mind screams at her to step back. In more than just the physical.
But again, she is paralyzed and consumed by all things him. Her mouth parting and stomach coiling when he’s in front of her. His arm swooping around her back to pull her into him, to continue the drowning she’s incapable of stopping.
Her breath catches in the back of her throat. “Roman….”
“Karina.” Her eyes slam shut as his fingers dig into her skin, thumb caressing the fabric of her gown. His heat travels, the proximity between them both suffocating and not enough. There’s equal desire to lift her hands to his chest and push him away just as much there is to feel the cotton wrinkle under her touch as she pulls him closer. “Baby, I know…I know I need to work on some things.”
“Ro—”
“And I will.” His deep voice is nothing short of pleading as his thumbs continued to ruffle with her gown, each stroke heavier than the one before. Coaxing her to open her eyes, to meet his gaze that she has no doubt reflects the sincerity in his voice. “I’d do anything for you. I love you. You know this.”
It’s at that final statement, however, that she wills her eyes open. Sure enough, he’s staring down at her with nothing short of sincerity and a hint of desperation. Maybe more than a hint.
Karina sighs, hating the way one of the immediate things she takes note of once again is the deepening of the lines around his eyes. The scruff of his beard. Sleep deprivation and lack of maintaining certain aspects of appearance. Two of the first things that always take a hit whenever she attempts to place distance between them. And she hates it. Not that she notices it.
But that she cares.
That she feels bad.
That it makes her want to take his hand and never let go.
Karina swallows, unwilling to let her thoughts betray her. “Then why won’t you give me space when I ask for it?”
How she’s able to issue the question that immediately crossed her mind following his last statement is beyond her. She just knows that she sees what flashes in his warm gaze, the subtle tick of his jaw and the evident delay in his response that indicates he’s thinking.
“Because that’s not what you need. It’s not what we need.” His voice is slow and gentle, as if talking to a child who simply lacks the ability to understand. Far from condescending but easily in the valley of invalidation.
He’s not listening to her.
“Roman—“
“I know what you need, Karina,” he interrupts. Her chest tightens as he ups the ante, traveling his hands up her body, stopping only when his thumb is nestled right under the swell of her big breast. “You need me, baby. Just like I need you.”
Words she’s heard before. Several times over. More than she can count. It should be redundant. Wash, rinse, repeat. And that may be the case, but so is the way her stomach continues to knot and the heat from his body calls to her. Makes her want to lean and melt into him.
Especially when she realizes that her hands have lifted to his chest yet not an inch of her has moved in an effort to shove him away.
“We’re perfect for each other, Mina,” he continues. Karina’s lips part ever so slightly when he dips his head to the crook of her neck. His soft, dark tresses spilling over her chest, the familiar scent of Argan oil from his shampoo has her eyes fluttering shut once more. Her fingers slowly dragging down his chest—solid, defined muscle that instantly evokes sinful memories of how it feels to have her palms braced on him. Using his strong, sturdy body to brace her as she rides him, his deep voice talking her through every step. “Every fucking inch of you was made for me. Made for me to feel. For me to love. For me to touch—”
The knots in her core intensify as does the pulsing and throbbing in between her legs. “Ro—”
“For me to fuck.”
There’s always been something magnetic about Roman. A pull that she’s never been able to resist. The current and riptide that’s unforgiving and unavoidable. And Karina is reminded of as much when he hikes her up on his waist and carries them into her bedroom. With how he carefully lays her down onto the mattress, one knee up on the bed as he climbs over her. All the while her hands never leave the back of his neck, fingers embedded in his loose curls, while his roam and grope every part of her soft, squishy body. Her own mouth parted when he eases his hands up the sides of her thick legs, squeezing and jiggling the meat of her hips.
She’s left panting, chest beating, and a whine sitting at the back of her throat when he kisses the corner of her mouth. Her eyes lock onto his, the soft glow of the lamp on the nightstand highlighting his side profile. In the dim room, his eyes darkened and mouth parted similar to her own, he’s never looked more beautiful.
It’s what confuses her sometimes. How something and someone so physically beautiful can also be someone capable of acts so heinous.
Beauty that belies the beast.
Karina licks her lips and reaches for his shirt when he grabs her wrist and kisses her palm. “No one else knows how to love and take care of you like I can,” he murmurs against her burning skin. Heat laps at every inch of her, similar to how he plants a trail of kisses starting with her jaw and continuing downward. “No one can make you happy like I can.”
His words mingle in with the sensations that paralyze her body. Karina manages to hoist her ass up just enough, elbows anchored onto the bed, thus allowing her the perfect view as he sinks to his knees at the end of the bed. He tugs her body towards the edge, Karina falling backwards only to arch upwards almost immediately when he flattens his tongue against her cunt.
“Fuck,” she curses. Her hands are gliding across the mattress as he uses two fingers to spread her slick pussy lips apart, granting and allowing his thick pink tongue greater territory to explore. Thorough and attentive in all the ways, it’s the circular motion he flicks across her swollen clitoris that makes her hand shoot to the top of his head.
He immediately swats it away.
“Stop moving.” The only warning issued as he resumes eating her pussy with fervor, intensity, and precision that has her feeling like she’s only seconds away from her climax. Her thick thighs clamp around his face, locking him in, and it’s way he moans and grips her thighs, hiking them over his broad shoulders, that nearly does her in.
“So good,” he groans. The swipe of his tongue up the length of her, including the gentle probe against her asshole, making her curse once more. “Been in fuckin’ agony without this pussy.”
Karina hates the way her mind immediately shifts towards agreement as he continues to suck and slurp, her juices dripping down onto the bedding that she just changed this morning. She’s lost count of how many packs of sheets and loads of linen only laundry she’s had to complete since the entrance of Roman Reigns into her life.
He is both the source and cause of all messes in her life in every single way.
But it doesn’t prevent her body from inching off the bed just enough to buck into his face creating a loud, squelching sound that fills the room and dances alongside her panting and moaning.
“That’s right,” he coaxes, her pussy contracting around his finger as he begins to pump her in tandem with his oral onslaught. He kisses her clit and sighs. “Always so responsive. I’ve taught you well.”
Another statement she can’t negate. While Roman certainly wasn’t her first time, he has been her first for many other things. Namely just the extent to which he worships her body, the boundaries he’s encouraged her to push and explore. The way he’s helped her to recognize just what her preferences are inside the bedroom. The ability to initiate in ways she never would have before. Gradual introduction to and revelation of kinks she hadn’t even known she had.
The euphoria that is having a man who loves to give just as much as he loves to receive.
He’s helped her recognize that sex should always be mutually beneficial and pleasurable, an accomplishment she’d never had with any prior sexual partners.
Selfish. She’s now realized that they were selfish, and even more, fatphobic. Subtle and minimal in ways she hadn’t exactly caught on at the time.
“I just prefer to be on top.”
“Shower sex is overrated. Trust me.”
“I don’t think that position would really work for us.”
Rejections that she chalked up to personal preference. Now she knows that they were just being assholes.
Weak assholes.
Because the way Roman flips, twists, bends, and everything else under the sun her when it comes to sex more than proved everything she’d mentioned before was more than possible. Just not with them.
But most definitely with him.
That and some more.
A lot more.
All emphasized when in the blurry, hazy aftermath of her orgasm, Karina looks down to see Roman no longer buried between her thighs. He stands at the edge of the bed, naked, bronze skin glistening like the remnants of her essence that drip from his salt and pepper beard down onto his chest. But it’s the way he’s stroking his dick, big hand moving up and down all thick eight inches of turgid muscle, cum leaking from the tip, that has her mouth watering.
Has her pussy pulsing despite the orgasmic aftershocks that have yet to subside.
Her eyes meet his when he starts to hover over her. She reaches to grab him, to bring his mouth back onto hers, when she’s suddenly yanked up and turned over.
“Rom—“
Karina gasps loudly when he slaps her ass, his hands locking onto her hips and forcing her upwards and onto her knees. She moves to look over her shoulder only to gasp once more when she feels his weight atop her and the connection of heat against heat.
Her head drops, eyes shut, and fingers curl into a fist against the mattress. Roman nuzzles the side of her face, inhaling deeply, damp beard transferring her juice onto her cheeks. Karina dips her tongue out to taste the remnants that drip near the corner of her mouth when his grip tightens. She winces at the same moment he chuckles. “Talking about a fucking break.” Karina moans and wiggles her ass against him when Roman slides his dick up and down the length of her wet, sticky pussy lips, collecting her dew to coat his dickhead. “Only fucking break you need, baby girl, is for me to break this pussy back in.”
Words that barely register and matter when in one swift, fluid motion, he enters her.
Karina cries out once more from the mixture of pain and pleasure. She bites down on her bottom lip to the point she’s certain blood has been drawn. Small indents in her pouty pink lips like the ones she’ll no doubt leave alongside his strong shoulders before the end of the night.
If they can make it that far.
Karina winces and attempts to reach back behind her, her body jutting almost violently from the way he’s digging into her. “Baby, wa—wait.”
He ignores her, hands anchored on her fleshy hips, the thought of him staring at the recoil of her juicy ass bouncing off his dick making Karina’s protests falter and her resolve weaken. “Look at how this pussy gripping me.”
His dirty talk, as always, has her milking and dripping all over his cock, the darkened skin of her inner thighs coated with her cream. But as good as he feels inside her, there’s a level of pain and discomfort that’s gradually outweighing the pleasure. The morning after they had sex for the first time, Karina felt like she’d been hit by a fucking truck. Her bones felt heavy, limbs numb and without the ability to function as normally. But it was the throbbing in between her legs, the hiss she emitted out slightly parted lips as he washed her in the shared shower they took afterwards that took the cake.
Had her reaching for and popping an Ibuprofen that typically is only utilized when she’s PMSing or on her period.
Roman easily has the biggest dick out of all her prior sexual partners. The first time she saw it, watched him undo his pants and drop his boxers, dick springing to life with cum already coating the tip, her stomach dropped. Heard the return of words spoken to her by her best friend, Krista, forever ago as they sat on the sofa in her mom’s house one weekend. Each with a pint of Ben and Jerry’s and Secret Life of the American Teenager playing on her mom’s new 50inch TV.
“Ya’ know the best thing about being thick bitches?” She started, metal spoon hanging out her mouth as she licked it clean before smiling wryly. “We’ll never get stuck with micro penises. They gotta have enough so it doesn’t fall out while we’re riding it.”
Only eighteen at the time and still a virgin, Karina was mortified.
12 years later, the words have never rang more true.
Karina’s discomfort must somehow register to Roman. His low chuckle manages to make its way to her ears despite the loud, consistent smacking sound of him pounding her out and her headboard slamming into the wall.
If not for the situation, she might tell him to stop simply for the mere fact they already put two holes in the wall; she doesn’t want nor need to add anymore.
He slows down, palming and squeezing her left ass cheek. “See what happens when you deny daddy his pussy?” Karina’s groan is smothered through her closed mouth as his long fingers spread her cheeks, thumb probing against her asshole. Her fingers drag against the sheets once more. “Can barely take this dick, but I know you can.” He slaps her ass again with less force than the previous one, but she quickly realizes it’s only because the intensity has been transferred elsewhere. “Just gotta let me stretch you out again.”
In a matter of seconds, his hand is again knotted in her coils with a grip that would be the cause of her wince if not for the way his left arm swoops around her body. How his forearm locks against her soft belly and pulls her ass up just enough to deepen her arch. How he leans over her body, his heat transferring to hers, and resumes pounding her out.
“Shit!”
“You missed me, didn’t you?” Each thrust of his big dick makes her pussy squelch and tears leak out of her eyes. He feels like he’s in her fucking stomach. So damn deep. So fucking good. “Tell me how much you missed me, Karina. How much you missed this dick.”
“I missed you,” she cries, voice muffled from both her tears and the bedding that has her mouth partially covered. “Missed this dick so much, daddy.”
“Of course you did, sweetheart.” She hates the way his smug tone and breath fanning the shell of her ear that he gently bites on make her want to throw her ass back against him. He can’t be any deeper than he already is, stretching her out just how he said he would, but God, there’s an insatiable door he’s seemed to unlock for her when it comes to sex with him.
It’s indescribable.
“Fuck, Mina. You know how much I love this pussy? How much I love you?” He yanks her head back, her eyes shifting to lock with his. “Acting like you don’t know who the fuck you belong to.” Roman kisses her hard, and she moans into his mouth, any prior resolve and reluctance to waver from the paltry boundaries she tried and failed to set every single time collapsed and defeated the moment he carried her into her bedroom. Perhaps even before that.
He bites down on her bottom lip, making her eyes shoot open to see him staring at her with the same love and lust drunk expression she’s certain is written all over her own face. “I own every inch of you just like you own every bit of me.”
There’s an almost menacing undertone that makes chills shoot up her arched spine, but it’s outweighed by the sweat accumulated in the creases of her rolls and across her forehead. Drowned out with each delicious thrust and grind of his dick inside of her wet pussy.
“Tired of these fucking games.” He growls, snapping his hips in tandem with each punctuated word of ownership. “You. Are. Mine.”
It’s nothing he’s not said before. In every way imaginable. All the iterations and variations. Solidified in the way he brings his hand on top of her left one, fiddling with the diamond on her ring finger. The ring that, despite several breaks since his proposal almost three months ago, she hasn’t removed.
Even after she initially told him she needed time to think, wasn’t sure if she was ready to take such a big step when they clearly have issues to work through. After she returned home that night following their date, twisted and turned until she finally fell asleep. After she awoke to the sound of soft snoring, the feel of a heavy arm across her plush body, and the ring she’d gently handed back to him on her finger.
Again….the ring that hasn’t moved.
She, however, is moved when she comes all over his dick, and Roman’s response is to roll her onto her back, slide his hand up the back of her big thighs and enter her once more. Continuing to fuck her even through the aftershocks of her orgasm.
Her haze is as blurry as the sight of his massive body over hers. She can briefly make out the outline of his lips spreading into a smug smile. “You better save your energy, sweetheart, and let daddy take care of his girl, cause Imma be in this pussy all fucking night.” Her stomach twists from both excitement and apprehension. She has no doubt he absolutely means what he says. She’s never met a man with such a high sex drive. “You’re ovulating. You know what what means, princess?” Her hands move on top of his right one that’s wrapped around her throat. “That means it’s time to put a baby in you.”
Karina's eyes shut once more as she arches her back off the bed, Roman guiding his hand to grope and squeeze her heavy breast. She licks her lips, mouth dry, pussy continuing to be wrecked as he pistons in and out of her.
For some time now, he’s made clear his desire for them to start a family. Indicated he wants to start sooner rather than later given their almost seven year age difference. Karina can’t say she was or even is entirely opposed. It’s just, once again, the order in which these things occur, in her mind, should only be figured out and dictated once they work through the issues that continue to cause these failed breaks she keeps initiating.
Pregnancy, however, is something that might occur sooner or later, problems and Roman’s obsessive behavior be damned.
He already found his way into her Flo app, tracks her cycle and, clearly, her ovulation dates.
She’s not on birth control anymore after briefly restarting once realizing Roman wasn’t going anywhere and sex between them was quickly reaching a point where Plan B’s and the pull out method could only do so much.
But that ended up being an epic disaster and the source of an argument between them when he found the pack in her nightstand drawer.
That was the last time she saw it.
And the last three times she attempted to pick up her refill and get back on track, she’d come home only a few days later to find her them missing.
He popped each and every pill out of the packet and flushed them down the toilet.
She even met with her OB-GYN and scheduled an appointment to get an IUD.
Roman got into her MyChart and canceled the appointment.
Even her last resort of picking up a box of condoms from the drugstore resulted in nothing more than him taking the box, looking at it, and throwing it away in the trash right in front of her.
The last resort's last resort came in the form of Karina convincing herself that she’d get him to start pulling out again as they did when they first got together. But each time resulted in nothing more than Karina wrapping her legs around him tighter, crying and begging for him to come inside her. A request he eagerly and happily obliged to until his cum was leaking out of her swollen pussy.
After that was when she ultimately gave up.
And since then, while she’s not overtly thrilled at the thought of getting pregnant right now, especially while unmarried, the truth is that she’s not entirely opposed either.
A sentiment reinforced when Roman gently caresses her face, ghosting his lips over hers, gently brushing away the tendrils laying against her forehead. “God, you’re gonna look so beautiful carrying our child.”
Visions flash before her now closed eyes. The feel of his hand intertwined with hers, his big body between her spread legs as he travels precious kisses all over her swollen stomach. A small smile on her face as they discuss potential baby names, unopened boxes sitting in the unfinished nursery waiting for them to decorate.
The sort of domestic future she’s always visioned for herself. One that’s never felt more doable and possible until Roman.
Hope swirling and rising even hours later after he finally finds his fill after filling her more times than she can count. After the shared shower where he ran the wash cloth over her body with gentle touches and soft, murmured words of praise and adoration. The way he handled the changing of the sheets and bedding, pulling her body into his as she curled into him, his voice low and his determination unassailable.
“You’re mine forever, Karina.” He travels his mouth around the perimeter of her hairline, hand on the back of her neck, hers over his heart where her name is spelled out in blank ink among the valley of other permanent markings of his journey. Of his life. Of him. “That’s never going to change. I’m never letting you go.”
It's a proclamation that sends chills down her spine.
author’s note: this might be the most taboo, wildest shit i've ever written. and it's actually the tamer version of my initial idea....there is no saving me atp, idk.
pairing: roman reigns x black!oc
warnings: smut. vaginal penetration. multiple positions. age gap (17 years). strong themes of infidelity. taboo pairing. angst. themes regarding death, abandonment, and neglect. morally gray characters.
words: 5k
credit: title graphic and solid pink divider by me // photos from pinterest // black and white gif's from google // roman gif by @fabxpunk // mdni and sexual content banners by anitalenia
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I know I shouldn't be here. Know that I should have never even opened his text. Should have never unblocked him. Should have never sat still, feet planted in the ground as they made the final boarding announcement. It was my out. The perfect opportunity to try to untangle this massive web of lies, deception, and confusion that I've found myself drowning in the past few months.
All I had to do was board the plane. Get on the plane and allow it to carry me as far away from them, from him, as possible. A one way ticket to a fresh, new start. It made sense. It was the most logical thing to do. The right thing to do.
But I couldn't.
It felt like weights sat on top of my chest and feet, anchoring me to the ground, keeping me bound to the seat I sat in for over twenty-five minutes even after that last, final round of boarding. Pressure that remained and throbbed as I reversed the steps taken to heal. To walk away from all of the confounding, stressful, maddening pieces of a puzzle I thought I'd figured out before the game even began.
Truth be told, I'm not even sure what fucking game it even is anymore.
If it's a game at all.
My hands smooth up and down his chest, defined muscles firm against my soft palms. My head is back, ends of my hair—freed from the hair tie when my dark strands were wrapped around his big hand as he fucked my face— brushing the top of my ass. My heavy breasts pressed together and moving in tandem with each slow, sensual gyration of my hips. His stomach is wet and sticky from the trail of my essence that I dragged along his toned body when he easily slid me off his face and onto his erect dick that'd sprung back to life after he'd come all over my chest, and I, all over his face.
His recently dyed beard and pronounced lips reflecting with the remnants of my pussy as patches of his dried cum stick to my dark areolas.
Every so often, our eyes meet, and with every occurrence, that twisting in my stomach tightens. His fingers dig into my hips where he holds me steady as I rock against and on top of him. I do my best to keep my eyes shut—out of sight, out of mind—leaning into the carnal pleasure and bliss that stems from him being buried deep inside my slick wet.
I gasp when Roman's left hand lifts from my hip to the back of my head. My eyes opening just as he yanks on my hair, forcing me to bend down where I meet his mouth for a steamy, sensual kiss.
I hate the way I moan into him. How my movements still as I drown in the inevitability that is Roman Reigns.
He breaks our kiss, minty breath fanning my face as he nips on my bottom lip. "Did I tell you to stop?" My eyes flutter once more as he tightens his fist in my hair, voice gruff. "Keep riding me, sweetheart."
For someone who's never done well with people telling me what to do, the inner feminist in me mourns at the ease in which I obey. Easing back into the motion of grinding up and down, back and forth, and slow circles. All the while he thrusts his tongue back into my mouth, allowing me to taste myself as his hand squeezes at my breast.
Rough pad of his thumb grazing over my puckered nipples as I force myself to ignore the burning in my thighs and growing tension in my legs. I'm not sure how long he's had me on top, but I also know it's better for me to remain in charge vs him.
The minute he gets me on my back, side, or stomach, it's a wrap. Despite months of him beating my shit the fuck up, I still struggle with recovery. Still have to ignore the borderline painful throbbing between my legs and the tiny hiss that leaves my mouth every time he uses the rag to clean up the mess he's made of me.
A few days out from Main Eventing his 11th WrestleMania would make most think he'd be taking it easy, be focused on only traditional forms of training. But that's not Roman Reigns.
At least not who he is with me.
Not even my ex who seemed to want to fuck for breakfast, lunch, and dinner had as high a sex drive as the man almost 17 years my senior who, nine times out of ten, makes me tapout quicker than any man ever has.
It's fucking insane.
His hand locked in my hair finally releases to glide down my slick back, squeezing, slapping, and jiggling my ass before he starts to lazily guide me up and down. My own hands cage the side of his head as we continue to tongue each other down when he starts fucking up into me again.
"Mmmm, so good."
"Yeah?"
I nod with a ridiculous and embarrassing amount of vigor that's rivaled only by the pace in which he's fucking me. Or I'm fucking him. Us fucking each other.
But my valiant efforts must fall short because one minute we're grinding against each other, slick body to body, and the next, my cheek is pressed into the mattress, my round ass hoisted up in the air and my body nothing more than a rag doll from the intense, deep, back-to-back backshots he's giving me.
"F—f—-fuck, R—r—r—"
"What took you so long to get here?"
My brows cave together as my hands continue to fist at the sheets, the sound of his heavy balls slapping against my dripping cunt distracting to the point where I leave his strange, weirdly timed question unanswered.
Big mistake.
The sting from slapping my ass makes me jump, the impact strong enough to the point where I'm certain that with the lights on, you can clearly see the outline of his big ass hand print.
But Roman is equally caring as he can be cruel, leaning over and using that same hand to gently knead my ass as he continues to dig me out. "I asked you a question, Jaleila." My eyes shut once more as he pushes my hair to the side, warm lips grazing the back of my neck. "Been waiting for you…"
That twisting in my stomach intensifies once more. He shouldn't be saying things like that. He shouldn't have been waiting for me in the first place. If there was anyone he should have flown out early to keep him company over the next several days while he works heavily to promote Mania, it should be Shayna.
It should be his wife.
It should be his wife and kids.
Not me.
And yet…
That doesn't mean, however, I can't at least try to retain some of my dignity. Even as he grinds his pelvis against my ass, forever using that big ass dick of his to make me putty. "Wasn't—fuck—wasn't sure if I wanted to—to come."
His deep chuckle is nestled in between the consistent, loud sound of skin slapping skin. "You always come for me, Leila." I hate how I don't hate the way he autonomously decided to start using my nickname one day without permission or request. I especially hate how I've never corrected him on it, either. "Where else were you gonna go?"
Home. I was going to go home. The place I should have never left in the first place.
Would have saved myself a shit ton of stress.
And heartache.
Or heartbreak.
"Naw…" My hands glide down the bed, the crumpled, damp sheets soft against my palms but not nearly as soft as the sensation of his full lips along the shell of my ear. "Mine." He's practically sprawled on top of me at this rate, pace sporadic and rushed, indication of the burning desire to find his release. I can feel it in how he forces my head up and to the side just enough for him to kiss me once more. Can taste his need and desperation.
It's nothing more than a mirror of my own.
He finishes inside of me, ropes of cum dripping from my swollen, tender pussy. Smeared all over his cock, the bed, and sheets that need to be burned at this point. I shouldn't let him. Feel guilty about it as he leaves to grab a towel to at least clean up some of our mess. Mentally berate myself for not making him pull out, but then I remember.
It wouldn't have made a difference.
But as amazing as the sex is, as he feels, it doesn't stop the way my brain swirls with ideas and thoughts that betray.
What if I stayed?
What if we could make it work?
What if—
Nothing but dead ends to the same outcome that was always determined from the moment I landed at Miami International with a smile on my face and malice in my heart. This was all so much easier from the outside looking in. Seemed so much simpler when I decided to accept the most unexpected offer from the least expected person.
I can still recall the moment I answered the phone, scowl on my face as I worked to fix dinner even though I wanted nothing more than to jump in bed and bury myself under the blankets until my irksome alarm reminded me that work isn't just a once a week thing. It's a 5x a week thing.
The way I almost hung up the phone when she said her name. I thought it was some sort of joke only to realize I'm not nearly important enough for anyone to want to prank me. I still don't know how she got my number. We hadn't spoken in years. She stopped sending Christmas cards before I even graduated high school. We were virtual strangers.
Perhaps it should have stayed that way. Perhaps I should have just cussed her out, told her to never contact me again, blocked her, and moved on with my life. I've spent so long without her that the "loss" would be nothing more than a continuation of the norm.
But I didn't.
I told her I'd think about it when she suggested I come spend some time with her so we could "bond" and "catch up." I almost threw up the minute it left her mouth, the delivery overtly sugary and deceptively sweet, a voice synonymous to nails on a chalkboard. Disingenuous. The type we use during the interview and drop when we land the job. A performance. It felt like she was auditioning for something.
For me.
And I couldn't understand why, just how I couldn't understand why I didn't immediately shut her down.
Why I twisted and turned in bed that night until I leaned over to hit the lamp on my nightstand. Grabbed my iPad with the cracked screen and bad camera to google what I hadn't in years. Nothing had changed outside of additional photos, videos, and a People Magazine article that made my jaw dropped and suddenly turned a boring, lazy scanning into an unexpected plot twist.
WWE Superstar Roman Reigns and wife call off divorce.
I read it from line to line, all the way down to the comments that led me to deep dive, discovering information that wasn't available when I'd last looked her up a few years prior. Learned that despite her perfectly curated Instagram page which boasted overtly edited photos of her and her equally perfect little family was nothing more than a facade.
That I was once again reminded things aren't always what they seem.
It was also in that moment I started to put together the pieces that would eventually become my master plan. The reason I called her the next morning and accepted the offer. Not to bond. Not to catch up. Not to connect.
But to kickstart the one and only opportunity to do what I'd never thought I'd be able to do.
To hurt her the way she hurt me.
To ruin and fuck with her mental the way she messed with mine.
My perfect "cousin" who spent her days doing hot yoga with her girlfriends, making cooking videos for her Instagram page that boasted half a million followers, and showcasing her beautiful children and handsome husband. It was all perfectly and intentionally curated to depict and convey the life she'd worked so hard to achieve, no matter who was hurt and discarded along the way.
I would know.
No one was hurt and cast aside like trash that served no purpose more than me. Because I didn't.
She did away with me.
She left.
It's been a recurring theme of my life.
Because Shayna has only ever cared about things and people so long as they're useful to her. If it or you don't benefit or fit into the cookie cutter life she's finessed for herself, then she dismisses and flicks you away like that pesky gnat that buzzes in your ear, driving you mad until you silence it for good.
And once you're silent, you no longer exist in her world.
Therein lies the privilege of it all. The people who hurt and traumatize go on and live their lives carefree without the scars, pain, and trauma left behind in the wake of their crimes.
They flourish while you drown.
And I've been grasping for life vests for as far back as I can remember.
"I got a busy day tomorrow so you'll have to keep yourself occupied until I'm done." His deep voice alerts me to the fact that he's now lying on the bed next to me, on his back, one hand behind his head as he scrolls on his phone with his left.
I'm still on my stomach, my own arms underneath the pillow that my left cheek is pressed into. I stare at him, the lighting of a city that never sleeps reflected off his side profile and phone in his hand illuminating his face and hazel specks in his eyes. I don't realize that I'm reaching out, stroking his beard, still damp and glistening from the evidence of our transgressions, until it's too late. "We're in the city of sin, aren't we?" His eyes temporarily flick over to me, a small smirk on his face. "I think I'll find something to do." A beat. "Or someone."
The corners of my mouth lift into a small smile as something dark flashes in his gaze.
"Jaleila…."
"Relax, big boy." I roll my eyes, body moving on its own accord as I close the uncomfortable gap between us. Head on his shoulder, arm across his stomach, my right leg hiked over his, the warmth of his now flaccid penis brushing against my inner thigh. I chuckle, kissing his shoulder. He tugs me into him, tapping the top of my ass and kissing my temple. My eyes shut, voice softening as the exhaustion from all our festivities starts to catch up to me. "You've ruined that for me with anyone else, I fear…."
He's ruined a lot of things for me, actually.
It's fucked up.
All of it.
This wasn't supposed to happen. None of it. I had the perfect plan. Simple but effective.
Come. Destroy. Leave.
In that order and with very specific objectives, but where we are now compared to where I thought I'd be couldn't be anymore different.
I shouldn't be laying up with this man. Not like this. The goal always was to fuck him, to see if those whispers and rumors on gossip forums about his "wandering eye" being one of the main reasons for Shayna filing for divorce were true.
They were.
And despite my knowing that he truly has no idea how sick, twisted all of this is and how much of a fucking pathological liar his wife is, it didn't change the fact that I almost hated him as much as I hate her. This man I'd never met prior to a few months ago but was the sole reason my life ended up on a trajectory that only led to hurt, rejection, and dysfunction.
From the clips I'd pulled up of him online, interviews of him pompous and cocky, I expected to have to work hard to swallow my pride and butter up an arrogant egomaniac. To set aside my own reservations to get shit done.
I was wrong.
For a man who plays a narcissist disgustingly well, I'm not sure I've ever met someone so kind. He has his moments, sure. I've seen them firsthand, but when the cameras all go away, and it's just him. Him and his kids, especially, he's a completely different person. Kind, thoughtful, charismatic, funny in that dad humor sort of way. It's hard to get a read on him at first because he's initially and naturally on the introverted side of the spectrum, the complete opposite of my extroverted soul. But once he gets to talking, there's no stopping him.
His family means everything to him, and I can see why his kids seem to adore him so much.
He's a good dad, and I believe once upon a time he was also a good husband. Perhaps fame and success changed him, too. In a different way it did his wife who seems almost obsessed with maintaining a "perfect" image.
Maybe it made him realize settling down so young before he truly had time to explore the playing field was a mistake. He's not the first, and he won't be the last.
Just like I probably won't be the last.
I only planned to fuck him once. That was all that was needed to guarantee a front row seat to view the horrified look on her face when I told her, in graphic detail, how I'd fucked her husband in their bed. The overwhelming satisfaction that would forever satisfy me at seeing her hurt. Seeing her pain and knowing that I caused it.
The ability to close up a stinging chapter of my life that could only be achieved by ruining hers.
I was wrong.
I was wrong about everything.
Roman isn't an ugly man at all, so the attraction component of things was never a concern. I immediately thought him someone I'd fuck in a heartbeat just from the first photo I saw of him on Google a years back. What I didn't realize, however, is that physical and sexual attraction would end up being the least of things I've grown to feel about and towards this man.
I feel for him in a way I've never felt about anyone before. Desire his presence and attention in ways that scare me. I don't have to force. I just am. He's the easiest person I've ever had the pleasure of talking to, hence why pillow talk between us has been the norm since the first time we fucked.
And the sex….
Far too intimate for someone I hated with a fiery passion for so many years.
Almost as much as I hate her.
Or did.
Because she's yet another character who's undergone edits and revisions I didn't think were possible.
I'm 100% certain her being exactly as awful as I remember, believed her to be, would resulted in me not laying up on this man as he strokes my back and talks with me about his thoughts and concerns towards his career that's nearing its final run.
It would have fueled my dedication to sticking to the plan.
But she's not awful. Hasn't been. She's goal driven and image obsessed, but she also has asked genuine questions about me, spent time with me that's always felt wanted instead of forced. Cracked jokes and encouraged me to actually utilize my business degree and go for the jewelry business I've always wanted to open but never found the means or way to for XYZ reason.
Even hinted she'd invest.
That's not something a cold, heartless bitch would do.
Yet another example of me being confused and conflicted as fuck. For every not so great to horrible thing I know or believe about her, there's an antithesis. And for him, I can't seem to even find a fucking vice. Not one that'll stick.
He's a cheater?
Well, so are most men, and even so, what does that make me?
She's a liar? Again, pot meet kettle.
Both adjectives swarm around in my head as we go for round who knows what, this time with him on top, in between my legs. Missionary. That position that's supposed to be reserved for lovers, and in the physical sense, we are.
For him, at least. For me, it's physical and beyond. I love this man. I'm in love with this man, and I shouldn't be. I can't be.
It's not only wrong on a variety of levels, but it's a hopeless cause. A dead end to nothing and nowhere. He's married, and that's not changing. Shayna is never going to leave him. I still don't know what made her file for divorce only to change her mind, nor is it really any of my business, but if even after multiple affairs, filing, and dismissal, she's still not going anywhere….she never will.
And perhaps he was the one who fought for them to stay together. Unlikely. He wouldn't be fucking me like this, flying me out to spend the week in Vegas with him while she and the kids are back home, if he truly wanted to make his marriage work. They live as two strangers who stay together for the sake of image and family. Must believe that together is better for the kids.
I honestly haven't a fucking clue how I've allowed things to get this far. One minute I was plotting and scheming, the next I was smiling and laughing and loving. None of the latter being forced or disingenuous. I don't have to make anything be something it's not because it just is.
Organic and real.
What I feel for Roman is real. But it was all built upon a mountain of lies that began not with my arrival to Miami, but my arrival into the world.
Over 20 years ago
The day that I'll never forget and the one Shayna probably doesn't even remember. Or perhaps she does and just doesn't care.
My thoughts take on a darker, heavier turn as we lay in bed once more, hours later, the sound of his soft snoring in my ear as his arm anchors around my body, my back into his chest. He sleeps. I spiral.
The day where both titles and dynamics shifted. Where visits became more spread out until ending altogether. Phone calls that went unanswered. Hugs and kisses to my forehead never felt again. My questions always met with kind smiles and sweet words betrayed by the meaning of those words. I eventually stopped asking, stopped sitting on the sofa, looking out the window, waiting to see her pull up.
Later on, I would learn the hard way that Shayna met someone while away at college. Someone who she decided she wanted to do life with. That was a much better option than whoever my sperm donor was. That she saw as her chance to a better, different life.
One that didn't include me.
I accepted what I couldn't fully grasp but understood enough to be filled with an insurmountable amount of grief for such a young child. Grief that would become a recurring theme of my life.
That catapulted one Saturday morning when I woke up and wasn't immediately hit with the smell of my grandma's favorite pancakes but instead found her dead on the bathroom floor with a toothbrush in her mouth.
Brain aneurysm.
I was seven.
Shayna never even said a word to me at the funeral.
Fast forward four years later, living with my great grandma, the sweetest, kindest woman I'd ever met. Getting off the bus and walking into the house that was far too quiet around the time she was always watching reruns of her favorite judge shows.
A silence that made sense once I made my way to her room and found her still in the bed. Sleeping. Eternally.
Heart attack.
I was 11.
Shayna didn't even come to the funeral.
Sustainability, however, came in the form of the grandfather I never knew and only met because no one wanted me, and it was either he take custody of me or I'd become a ward of the state. Thus, his reluctant acceptance.
He was a tall, big, burly man with a gray goatee, bald head, and a cane he really should have used more often than he did. Lived out in the middle of nowhere and was the textbook definition of that old, cranky neighborhood all the kids were afraid of.
I wasn't.
No, I quickly learned that I inherited my sassy and bold personality not just from life that'd forced me to grow up much sooner than anyone should but the grandparent who would end up becoming my best friend and favorite person.
As much as we bickered and argued, he was always the person who supported me the most. Showed up at all my events. Even signed an AMA to leave the hospital shortly after a nasty fall to see me walk across the stage at my college graduation.
"I'm proud of you, kid." He whispered, holding me tight as I cried silently into his chest, soaking up the love and support.
Three months later, he passed away.
And two years later, I'm still not over it. Still haven't decided what to do with his land or the almost seven figure inheritance from his life insurance policy that he left me.
Only me.
For two years, I've been in a state of limbo. Living in a crappy apartment, working as a bottle girl, trying to figure out what the fuck to do with my life.
At twenty four, I felt absolutely lost.
So when I randomly received Shayna's call and offer, I saw it as a way to right the many wrongs that'd been done to me and then try to figure out what to do and where to go from there.
But I feel even more lost now than I did then.
Until I don't.
Because it's not until days later, as I'm standing in the midst of a roaring crowd filled with thunderous applause and three letter chants, and watching them, that I understand. I watch how he greets them. First his sons, then his daughter, and finally her. See the wholesome interaction that finally forces to accept what I've refused to for far too long.
That that's his family. It's Shayna's family. That is the family that she chose. Lyla, kind and empathetic, the daughter that they'd conceived while they were still in college. The one she chose to acknowledge.
And keep.
Their twin sons, River and Rowan, almost ten and the sweetest, funniest set of kids I'v ever met.
That was the family.
Not me.
And certainly not the child in my stomach they could never find out about.
Regardless of how it all came to be, the manipulation and strings pulled that resulted in Shayna getting her happy ending, that's exactly what she'd found.
I couldn't ruin that. I can't. No matter how much my chest hurts and eyes water when he casts a quick glance to me before turning to climb back in the ring to celebrate his win. A quick look away and sniffle right as I see the boys lift their fingers to the sky to acknowledge him.
It's then that I know exactly what I need to do.
What I should have done a long time ago.
I have to leave.
There is no other option. The web of lies I've cast are far too great to walk back. There is no fixing what I've done. The truth will only hurt, only destroy, only ruin.
My feelings towards Shayna are still confusing and mixed, but there's no denying the love I've developed for the kids.
For Roman.
And for them, because of them, I can't.
I might have come out here a destroyer, but I hope to leave as a peace offering. It's the best outcome that can be found in any of this.
My sins are too great and unforgivable.
But even though Shayna started this, I can finish it. I can break the cycle.
I have to.
Not to mention…I'd only be bringing this child into another generation of dysfunction, thus doing the very same thing that I've hated Shayna for all these years.
It's a heartbreaking, devastating revelation, too. To see how even without her presence and role in my life, for majority of it at least, I'm nothing more than a reflection of her.
